


A Soldier's Daughter

by Dragon_Dweller



Category: The Witcher (TV) RPF, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Abandonment, Angst, Child of Surpirse, Elves, Emotionally Constipated!Geralt, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Half Elf OFC, Language, Minor Character Deaths, Monsters, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, RPF, Rinde, Roach, Slow Burn, Soft!Geralt, The Continent, The Law of Surprise (The Witcher), Violence, Wishes, Witchers, djinn, dubious parentage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:22:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 60,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27058666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragon_Dweller/pseuds/Dragon_Dweller
Summary: Geralt saves a old Soldier on his way home, who invoke the Law of Surprise as payment, and he gets quite the surprise, in the form of Skye.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 65





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a mix of the Game, Books and Show, and elements of my own muse. Enjoy!

He was a professional soldier for Temeria, so he spent more time away from home than at home. The last time, Tarzad of Dorian, was home was nearly twenty years before. He had been posted all over the Continent as a by-product of King Foltest's various alliances and vassal states. But, no longer a spring chicken, Tarzad of Dorian had earned his retirement from the Temerian army.

Parting with his dear friends and fellow soldiers, Tarzad mounted his steed and turned them towards home. It was bittersweet, going home. Ever since he was old enough, Tarzad had been a soldier, following the endless ranks of his compatriots through all matters and locations around the vast Continent, he knew no other life than soldiering. He worried he wouldn't be able to take the slow life of farming on the small spit of land his father had left him and his wife, Nica, when he passed, a year after their marriage.

“Gods.” Tarzad huffed, shaking his head as he thought of Nica.

He hadn't seen his beautiful wife in twenty years. Would he remember what she looked like? Would she remember what he looked like? He wasn't the fresh eyed soldier with a spring in his step and a sword proudly raised above his head. His brown eyes had dimmed with the horrors and hardships he had seen, the spring in his step worn away by the many years of marching numerous miles a day, and the sword he had so grown used to bumping against his leg was dented, dull and rusted, just like he was.

No, Tarzad and Nica would have to learn each other again, after two decades apart. But, their love had been strong and alive, when he left, and in the countless letters she had written him, at the start, at least. But, a few months after his last visit, Nica had mysteriously stopped writing Tarzad. Had she grown ill and passed away, and no one had thought to tell him? Did the years of long separation become too much for her, and she remarried, claiming he had died, and was too ashamed to write him about it?

“I suppose, we'll find out when we get home.” He said out loud to himself. “Aye, Silkie?” He addressed his horse, who snorted and shook his head in reply.

Tarzad pulled Silkie to a stop and slipped out of his saddle, grunting as he landed on his stiff and arthritic knees. Limping a little ways into the brush to relieve himself, Tarzad untied the laces of his trousers, leaning a shoulder against a nearby birch tree and sighed at the steady stream that left his screaming bladder. He frowned as he started to close up his trousers, hearing a crunch of dried leaves and fallen twigs nearby, then groaned, rolling his eyes.

“Silkie, you dumbass animal.” He hissed, securing his ties. “Must you always follow me? I don't need your help taking a piss.” He berated the animal, coming around the tree, only to see Silkie standing exactly where he left him, on the dirt trail, and blinked at him, dumbfounded.

A rustling came behind him and he swung around, his hand instinctively going for his sword, then cursed under his breath, realizing he had left it strapped to Silkie's saddle. But, again, there was nothing behind him. Huffing and spitting on the ground, Tarzad shook his head, mentally beating himself for being so soft in the mind.

“It's just the wind, you old goat.” He grumbled, making his way back to Silkie.

Tarzad was halfway to Silkie, when the animal started stirring restlessly, tossing his black head and shaking its body.

“Oh, don't you start!” Tarzad snapped at him. “You'll get my paranoia all in a ruf--”

Something cold and slimy grabbed Tarzad's leg, making his face twist up and grimace at the sickly feel, then he was yanked off his feet and face first into the mud. Panic quickly filled Tarzad as he was slowly dragged backwards, towards the swamp just beyond the grove of birch. He pushed himself up on his elbows, spitting mud out of his mouth and sputtering for breath, his thick and blunt fingers dug into the saturated and spongy ground, only grabbing fistfuls of stinking mud, moldy leaves and bits of blackened roots. Taking several deep breaths, Tarzad worked on calming himself down, tapping into his hardened soldiering to slow down the beat of his heart and clear the fog out of his mind, before anything truly drastic happened to him.

With one more deep breath, Tarzad rolled onto his back and looked at what beast had his ankle and nearly wet himself, seeing the alien-like creature. It was a sickly gray and purplish color, skin taut over its muscular body, pock marked and looking melted in places. It had a thumb and three long fingers on each hand with blackened and sharp nails on each end, a mouth full of needle-like teeth, a thin face, eyes bulging out and milky-white from its bulbous head. There were gills on each side of its pencil-thin neck, a long fin from the base of its skull to the center of its shoulder blades, and dripping from its body was a cold, thick and smelly slim, with bits of swamp moss and limp grass stuck to it.

A drowned dead.

And it was dragging him straight into the swamp, where the rest of its pack no doubt waited for their fresh meal.

“Fuck!” Tarzad barked, and kicked his free foot out, trying to dislodge his ankle from the creature's grasp as it started backing into the swamp water.

The drowned screeched as Tarzad's boot heel connected with the side of its face, its grasp slipping and claws digging into his leg and making Tarzad howl in pain, but kicked at it again. Getting his leg free, he twisted around onto his hands and knees, scrambled to his feet and half sprinting, half limping, ran towards Silkie, hoping to either mount the horse and make a get away or reach his sword to defend himself. But, again, the creature overtook him and had help this time, two of its kind heard its screeches of distress and anger, and came out of the swamp, to its aid. One jumped on Tarzad's back, one dove for his legs and the other pounced on him, once the other two had brought him to the ground.

“Help!” Tarzad screamed, feebly, hoping beyond hope that there was someone in the area that could hear and help him. “Help!” He kept yelling and struggling, the best he could.

Then, all of a sudden, the heads of the drowned dead whipped to the side, as the sound of broken branches rushed up on them. One of them screeched at the top of its lungs, causing Tarzad to go deaf momentarily, before he felt their weight on his back ease. One of the drowned dead went flying into the brush; headless, another was ripped off his legs with a crunch and splash and the last one, fell limply on top of him, its black blood oozing all over him from the gaping wound in the center of its chest. Tarzad panted as he pushed the dead creature off of him and rolled onto his back in the blood soaked mud, looking up at the face of his, by destiny, rescuer.

“Thank you, thank you.” He stammered, looking the huge and white haired man over.

“Hm.” He growled back, sheathing his weapon, across his back.

Tarzad stumbled and winced onto his feet, and still only came to the man's collarbone. “I am eternally grateful.” He gasped, uselessly trying to wipe the mud from his clothing. “Please, allow me to pay you. I have no gold, but I do have my horse.” He said, motioning to the shy creature.

“He's not much, but he's all I have.”

“I don't want your horse.” He growled at him, shaking his head.

“Then,” Tarzad fumbled, taking stalk of his pathetic possessions. “The Law of Surprise!” He gasped as the idea hit him. “You have saved me on my way home! Whatever first meets your eye, whatever windfall I know not I have, shall be your reward for saving my life.” He told him, desperate to repay this man and not have a debt above his head.

Tarzad of Dorian did not like owing debts and would pay them off any way he could, as quickly as he could. The man narrowed his golden eyes at the former soldier, then let out a growling huff and turned on his heels. Tarzad opened his mouth to call after him, to bring him back.

“How far is your _home_?” The man asked over his shoulder, vanishing behind a thicket of birch trees.

“No more than a week, it's just outside Dorian.” Tarzad yelled back to him.

After a handful of quiet minutes, the man returned to Tarzad, leading a brown mare behind him. “Let's go then,” he hissed, casting his unusual eyes to the dark sky, full of ominously grey clouds overhead. “I don't have much time with the growing winter.”

“Of course.” Tarzad nodded, and limped as quickly as he could back to Silkie.

Sighing heavily, the strange white-haired and gold eyed man swung himself up into his mare's saddle and followed just far enough behind Tarzad to discourage conversation, which was fine with him, something about the man gave Tarzad the chills and made him uneasy. But, he shook it off and led him in the direction of home. When, it grew too dark to see the path, Tarzad dismounted Silkie, taking down his bedroll and set up a small camp, building a fire to keep the chilly tentacles of an early winter's night away as he munched on his meager dinner, sitting on his spread out bedroll.

The man sat several yards away from him, his own fire and camp going, a low murmur of his voice as he spoke to himself, or perhaps his horse.

– –

Tarzad let out a heavy sigh, feeling twenty plus years of tension in his shoulders and back melt off of him as he moved into the clearing that surrounded his family farm. It looked almost the same as the day he left, there were animals penned around the clearing, chickens clucking and pecking around the door yard. The squat cottage was the same, the roof bowed in the middle from the weight of countless heavy snow falls, the rough wood dull and worn from age and weather, a steady stream of smoke billowing from the tall river stone chimney.

Tarzad grinned at it and felt a deep settling feeling in his chest.

“Home.” He sighed, happily.

 _Maybe settling down as a farmer after the adventures and strain of soldiering wouldn't be so bad after all._ He thought to himself.

The door of the cottage opened and a woman appeared, resting her hands on her hips. She wore a simple dress of rough blue cotton, her silvery grey hair tied back in a tight bun as she squinted at Tarzad, still mounted at the edge of the clearing.

“If you're looking for a hand out, we have nothing to spare.” She called out to him, squaring her thin shoulders, like she anticipated an argument.

Chuckling, Tarzad slipped out of Silkie's saddle and took a handful of steps forward, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, woman, it's not a hand out that I seek.” He called back to her in a jovial tone.

The woman's face fell, mouth hanging open and arms going limp at her sides for a moment, before gathering up her skirts and rushing across the yard to him, sending startled chickens in all directions. “Tarry!” She cried, reaching him and throwing her arms around his thick neck. “Thank the gods, you're finally home!” She sobbed into his chest as he picked her up and spun her in a circle.

“And whole.” She wept, pressing her palms to his face.

“I'm home for good, as well, Nini.” He told her, his own eyes brimming with tears.

“Thank the heavens.” She sighed, relieved. “I have something tha--”

“Wait, I have someone with me.” Tarzad said, setting her back down on her feet and turned towards where the man that saved his life was standing, just at the edge of the treeline. “He saved my life on my way home.” He explained to his startled wife.

“I've offered him the Law of Surprise, as payment.”

Nica's face fell hearing her husband's words and the look of the man. “Tar--”

“Who's this?” Tarzad frowned, looking towards the house.

“No.” Nica whimpered, looking over her shoulder.

Coming around from the back of the cottage and carrying a bucket of well water, was a beautiful, young woman, the near spitting image of her mother in her younger years. Her shoulder length and raven black hair blew loosely in the wind, whipping around her face, she was petite, maybe five foot four, but strong despite her size. She looked up, seeing her mother with two strange men, her mint green eyes looking between them, confused and concerned.

“Mother?” She called to Nica, setting the bucket of water down beside her.

“ _Mother_?” Tarzad frowned at his wife.

Nica flushed and cleared her throat. “Tarzad,” She said softly, glancing down at the ground, trying to collect herself. “This is Skye, _your_ daughter.”

“My daugh--” He froze and looked over his shoulder to the stranger that saved him.

His golden eyes were on Skye, taking her in and sizing her up, but his expression was stony and unreadable. Tarzad suddenly regretted not just letting him go with a thank you, but he had promised the Law of Surprise, giving the white-haired man the right to the first thing he saw, that Tarzad had no clue he possessed, like his almost twenty-one year old daughter.

The Law of Surprise couldn't be broken once it was offered and accepted as payment. Whatever windfall the giver of the Law came to, be it money, property, livestock or a..child, the receiver of the Law was destined to take it. No amount of money, bribery or begging could reverse it, on either side of the deal. Tarzad, Nica and the white-haired man all knew it, and poor Skye was yet to be let in on the transaction.

The White-haired man and Tarzad's eyes met, and both of them knew she was the payment, despite both of them wishing for something else.

“Skye.” Nica called back to her daughter, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice. “Take the water inside, like I asked of you.”

Tilting her head, confused and narrowing her eyes, Skye bent and grasped the rope handle of the wooden pail, and took it into the house, through the door her mother left open in her burst of joy, that was now forgotten.

“You come home, and _this_ is what you bring.” Nica hissed at her husband in a low voice, eyeing the stranger over her husband's shoulder.

“Had I _known_ I was a father to a daughter, I would have never offered the Law of Surprise to him, Nica.” Tarzad hissed back at her, gritting his teeth. “But, what is done is done. Destiny has decided our daughter to be his--”

“ _Our_ daughter?” She growled at him, her moss green eyes burning like smoldering embers. “ _I've_ spent the last twenty years raising _our_ daughter, Tarzad. Not you.” She barked at him. “You were off soldiering, and gods know what else, while I raised _my_ daughter and kept this farm going. Now, you suddenly show up, with the Butcher of Blaviken—That's right, I know who you are, _Witcher_.” She hissed at the white-haired man, when his eyes snapped to her.

“ _The Butcher of Blaviken_?” Tarzad snapped, surprised, looking at him as well.

“While it seems you were soldiering, your head was also in the sand, _husband_.” She berated him, hitting him in the chest. “Geralt of Rivia, a Witcher and the Butcher of Blaviken, who massacred the town not a year ago.”

The white-haired man, Geralt, growled at her, his gold eyes glowing. “Only some of that is true.” He sneered.

“Does any of it matter?” She chided him, standing her ground with him. “You're the man my _stupid_ husband as tethered my daughter too, for the rest of her life.” She looked at Tarzad with a deep mixture of hatred and disgust, spinning on her heels, and marched back into the house.

“Why didn't you tell me who you are?” Tarzad barked at Geralt.

“You never asked.” Geralt snapped back, glowering at him.

– –

“Mama, who are they?” Skye asked, leaning against the table her mother was angrily kneading bread dough on.

“The dark haired fool is your father.” Nica huffed, punching the innocent dough.

“And the other one?” Skye pressed, lifting her brows at her. “Mother.” She sighed, resting her hand on Nica's pounding hands, and gave her a soft expression. “Tell me.” She whispered. “We've never hidden anything from one another, no matter how harsh.”

Nica sighed, rubbing her brow with a floury wrist, leaving a smear of the white powder on her graying eyebrow. “You recall me telling you the story I heard at the market last year, about a Witcher butchering the people in the marketplace of Blaviken?” She asked, poking her fingers in the elastic dough.

“I do.” Skye nodded, her dark brows drawing together.

“Well, that same _man_ saved your father's life on his way home to us.”

Skye blinked at her mother, dumbstruck and confused. “So, a mass murderer saved my _father_. Pretty contradictory, isn't it?” She asked, shaking her head.

“Greatly.” Nica agreed, leaning on her arms against the table between them. “But, your same _stupid_ father, offered that _mutant_ the Law of Surprise to repay him for saving his life.”

“The Law of Surprise?” Skye frowned, licking her lips, and shaking her head again, she only knew bits and pieces about the Law, hearing several people at the marketplace in Dorian refer to it, in passing.

“Yes.” Her mother sighed, a thick lump of emotion in her throat and her eyes burning. “The Law of Surprise is the _Law_ of offering someone that's done you a great service, like saving one's life, something in place of not being able to pay with gold. The person offered the Law is rewarded with one thing the giver was not aware they possessed, upon finding out they had it.”

She looked at Skye and a tremendous sadness washed over her. “I never told your father of your birth, I never expected him to return. So, I saw no reason in trying to find out where he was posted and informing him he had a daughter.” She told her slowly, letting it sink in.

“Are you..” Skye cleared her throat and blinked at her mother. “Are you telling me, since my _father_ didn't know I was alive, and offered that _mutant_ , as you put it, this Law of Surprise, that I am the reward and his payment?”

“She is.” Tarzad's voice replied from the door as he came in.

“That's a great welcome home gift, _Father_.” Skye huffed at him, rolling her eyes and storming out of the room.

“She is so much like you.” He commented, trying to lighten the mood.

“Thank the Gods.” Nica huffed, going back to beating up the bread dough, and promptly started ignoring Tarzad.

– –

Geralt sighed, eyes rolling shut as his temples started to throb, this is exactly not what he needed in his life. He expected the usual Law of Surprise business, not a girl. Geralt had enough troubles in his life, he didn't need another mouth to feed and keep an eye on, Roach was enough of a chore as it was; and Roach didn't talk back. Geralt thought of mounting Roach and riding off, not turning back, leaving the girl to her parents and on her little farm, and continuing on his journey, back to Kaer Morhen for the winter.

But, another part of Geralt couldn't do that, perhaps it was Vesemir's voice in his mind.

_'No matter the payment, as a Witcher, you always take it. But, Gold is always better than anything else offered.'_

But, Geralt looked around the ramshackled farm, these people didn't have gold, if they did, it was so pitiful, it would bankrupt them for the year. Could he really take the girl, though? Was bankrupting them and letting the girl stay a better price, or was taking the girl and letting the old couple be secure the rest of their life?

“Nonsense, all of it.” He rasped at Roach, who grazed not far from him.

He hadn't entered the farm clearing, staying in the ring of trees around it, making a small camp several yards away, next to a stream, trying to figure out what he should do. They were doing the same, no doubt, in their little cottage.

“If I take the girl and show up at Kaer Morhen with her and tell Vesemir that she was my payment for saving an old soldier from the drowned dead, he'll have my head.” He rambled on, addressing the mare. “He'll ask why the idiot couldn't save himself, if he was a good enough soldier to last as long in life as he did.

“Or a cowardly one.” He huffed, shaking his head and stirring the little camp fire he had going. “We should have taken the other road, if we had, he'd be dead and we'd be halfway to Kaer Morhen without any inconvenient baggage.”

Geralt also knew, if he didn't take some sort of payment for the impromptu job he had done, Vesemir would lecture the ears off of him, then take his head. He could just ignore it and not bring it up to the older Witcher, but again, Vesemir had a strange, and deeply annoying, habit of knowing when Geralt had done a job and not taken payment for it. Which would make things worse than if he'd taken the girl with him.

_'Witchers always take payment, if we don't, then word will spread and soon everyone on the continent will hear of it and want you to work for free.'_

He wanted to press his fingers into his eyes as Vesemir's criticizing voice bounced around his skull, not making his decision on the matter any easier. Huffing and kicking his foot out in frustration, Geralt jerked to his feet and stormed into the forest, stomping and splashing across the stream as he went, needing to cool off.

– –

“You must go with him, Skye.” Nica sighed, sitting on the edge of her daughter's bed.

“Says _who_?” Skye demanded, sitting beside her mother.

“Destiny.” Tarzad replied, standing in her doorway.

“I don't see _Destiny_ standing here enforcing it, do you?” She sneered back, eyes narrowing at him.

“Skye.” Nica sighed again, resting her hand on her knee. “The Gods know I don't want you going with that, _Butcher_.” She said, shooting her husband a dark look. “But, your father is right, Destiny demands it.”

“If I had known, or if I could repay him in any other way, than with you, my girl.” Tarzad desperately tried to find a bridge to his daughter. “I would give it all up in a heartbeat, but we can not.” He sighed, broken.

“Does _it_ even want me?” She asked, motioning out her window.

“He doesn't have much choice in the matter either, my little dove.” Her mother answered, taking her hand and squeezing it.

“Gods know, I'll make him fucking miserable for it.”

“Skye, the man is a butcher, don't do anything that would cause him to harm you.” Nica warned her, giving her a stern look.

Skye rolled her eyes. “I'm not going to fear him.”

“You don't have too.” Tarzad replied, shaking his head. “But, you shouldn't anger him either.”

“Your father is right.” Nica agreed, glancing between them.

Heaving a sigh and rolling her eyes again, Skye nodded at her parents, there was no fighting it. “Fine, I'll go with him, if he wants me.” She grumbled, looking down at her hand, still linked with her mother's.

Tarzad turned and went outside, finding Geralt's camp. The Witcher was still there, he hadn't slept the night before after he came back from his angry walk in the forest. He looked up at Tarzad, lifting an unamused and bothered brow at him, dark smudges under his gold eyes.

“Well, Witcher?” Tarzad asked, blankly, lifting a brow back at him. “What will it be?”

Geralt turned back to the dying fire at his feet, rolling his jaw and gritting his teeth, taking a few more ditch effort moments to decide, then sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I'll take her.” He grumbled, standing up and stamping out the remnants of the fire, Roach still packed with his things from the day before.

“I'll be leaving in an hour.” He said, over his shoulder. “Don't have her pack too much.” He added, checking Roach's saddle.

Nodding, Tarzad turned and went back inside, informing Skye and Nica that Geralt agreed to take her and what he expected for wherever they would be going, once they parted from the farm. Nica packed Skye a change of clothing in a drawstring bag, as well as a bit of food and a bedroll.

“I want you to take this.” Nica said, pressing something into Skye's hand, as they stood in the kitchen.

Skye opened her hand and blinked at the dragon's breath opal, set in a brass necklace. “Where did you get this?” She asked, surprised.

“My father gave it to my mother,” She replied, resting her hand on Skye's cheek and stroking it with her thumb. “I was going to give it to you, for your twenty-first birthday, but seeing as you--” She choked up and struggled to clear her throat. “Seeing as you won't be here for it, I'm giving it to you now.”

Her bottom lip trembled, seeing the thick tears in her mother's eyes. “It's beautiful, mama.” She choked, sniffling and throwing her arms around her mother's neck. “I love you.” She whimpered into her neck.

“I love you too, little dove.” Nica sniffled back, hugging her tightly.

“I will come back.” Skye told her mother as they pulled apart. “I don't care if I have to steal a horse, I _will_ come back.” She vowed, squeezing her hands with a deep conviction.

“I believe you, my darling girl.” Nica nodded, tears dripping down her cheeks.

“Come on, girl.” Tarzad sighed, frowning at them, his heart throbbing.

Hugging her mother one more time, Skye stepped outside the cottage, slinging the bag over her back and followed her father to where the Witcher was impatiently waiting at the clearing's edge. She held her head high and kept her eyes clear and free of tears, not wanting to give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing her cry and be torn apart. Geralt gave her a once over, then looked to Tarzad and Nica.

“Promise, you'll take care of her, _butcher_.” Nica growled at him, crossing her arms over her chest, defiantly.

Licking his lips, Geralt gave her a slight nod of his head. Hugging again, Tarzad and Nica slowly turned and started back towards the house, reluctant as they went. Geralt turned his attention back to Skye, feeling his throat tighten, knowing he should say something to her, but couldn't find any words to do so. So, he pulled himself up into Roach's saddle, steadying the mare and reached his hand down to Skye, to boost her into the saddle behind him.

“I'll walk.” Skye growled at him, narrowing her eyes.

“It's nearly a two week journey, where we're going.” Geralt replied, narrowing his eyes back at her.

“ _I'll walk_.” She repeated herself, stubbornly.

Geralt sighed and rolled his eyes at her, shrugging his shoulders and settling himself in the saddle. “Fine.” He huffed at her, facing Roach in the direction of Kaer Morhen and spurred him forward.

Skye walked behind him, eyes burning holes into his back as they went. Walking didn't bothered her, it was an almost thirty mile walk to town, one way, especially since the only horse her and her mother had was used to pull the cart of whatever they were taking to the market or bringing back home, and Skye giving up the only seat on the cart for her mother's comfort. Geralt directed them to the town of Dorian, needing to stop there for a bit of business before they took on the serious leg of their journey to the Witcher stronghold.

“Stay here.” Geralt ordered her, tying Roach up to a hitching post and sighed at Skye's rolled eyes, then disappeared inside.

“Skye?” A voice called, behind her, making her cringe.

“Abby.” She replied, turning towards the girl.

“Where's your mother?” the Girl asked, looking around for her.

“She's at home.” Skye answered, willing her to go away and leave her be.

“What are you here for then?”

“None of your concern, Abby.” She sighed, turning her back to her again.

“Who was that you're with?” Abby pressed, not getting the hint to leave.

“A person.” Skye told her, squeezing her hands into fists and willing herself not to snap at the other girl.

“Wh--” Abby opened her mouth to continue, but froze.

Geralt came back out and approached Skye and Roach, blinking at the angered look on Skye's face, then saw the other girl behind her. “Hm?” He hummed at Skye, who only rolled her eyes and shook her head at him.

Abby's mouth dropped open, realizing that Skye was with the Witcher, not just any Witcher either, the Butcher of Blaviken, and backed away from them.

“Friend of yours?” Geralt asked, swinging up into Roach's saddle.

“She's the local pain in the ass.” Skye answered, rudely.

“I thought that was your job.” He replied, dryly.

Skye huffed at Geralt's back and followed after him and Roach, feeling the eyes of every person on the street on them, as they passed out of Dorian.

– –

They continued on until just after nightfall, when Geralt pulled Roach to a stop and picked a place for them to make camp for the night. He vanished into the woods nearby and gathered a bundle of firewood and dumped it on the ground, then knelt down to etch out a small bowl to protect the fire from the stiff breeze blowing in around them. He gathered a bit of dry moss and grass, building a small nest of it in the center of the bowl, laying a couple of sticks over that and took out his fire steel and striker, with one measured hit, the sparks flew from the steel, landing on the dried moss and grass, instantly igniting them.

With the fire going and feeding in several sticks of wood, Geralt moved to Roach's saddlebag and pulled out his bedroll, a small bit of food for his dinner and laid the blanket out beside the fire and sat down, breaking off bits of stale bread as he stared across the fire at Skye, who sat on her own bedroll, eating bites of her own dinner. Skye stared into the fire, eyes unfocused as she mindlessly ate, trying to ignore the cold air that whipped around her, the feel of Geralt's eyes on her and the growing pit of homesickness in her stomach.

Sighing, Skye finished off her dinner and laid down, wrapping herself up in her blankets and turned her back on the fire and Geralt, biting harshly into her lip to hold her desperate sobs back. Geralt frowned at the back of her raven hair, biting his own lip as he watched her shiver, from cold and emotions held at bay. He tossed several more sticks and twigs on the fire, stoking it to keep it burning bright and hot, he didn't sleep again that night, staying up to keep the fire going and to keep an eye on her, making sure nothing happened to her, while she slept.

She woke up the next morning and Geralt was in the exact same place and position he was in, when she fell asleep, minus one detail. His blanket. In the middle of night, while she slept, Geralt had taken his own blanket and carefully draped it over her. Skye blinked at him, rubbing the thick fabric between her thumb and forefinger, a light blush coloring her cheeks.

“It's going to be a long day.” Was all Geralt said, getting up and putting out the campfire, then walked off.

Shaking her head at him, Skye got up, shaking out both of their blankets and rolling them up, she carefully packed hers away in her pack and held Geralt's out to him, when he returned from his excursion. Nodding his head in recognition of her kind gesture, Geralt packed his blanket back into Roach's bag.

“Where are we going?” Skye asked as she and Geralt got back on the road.

“Kaer Morhen.” He replied, walking alongside her and leading Roach behind them.

“That's all the way up in Kaedwen.” She replied, shaking her head at him.

“It is.” Geralt nodded and lifted an impressed brow at her, very few people knew where Kaer Morhen was.

“Don't you have monsters and beasts to kill?”

Geralt chuckled at her. “There's not many monsters out during the winters, and as you know, winters on the Continent can be quite harsh.” He explained to her, amused. “So, I return to Kaer Morhen to wait out the winter there.”

“How exciting, cooped up in a stronghold full of Witchers.” Skye bemoaned, rolling her eyes.

“One other Witcher, for certain.” He corrected her. “Vesemir, he's the oldest remaining Witcher, and doesn't leave Kaer Morhen much. Eskel and Lambert do their own thing during the winters.”

“So, there's four of you remaining on the Continent?”

“With probably one or two more, that have melted into the background.”

Skye nodded and they fell silent again, walking along the dirt road towards the next town in front of them. The town turned out to be Moën, in the county of Ellander, where they stopped and Geralt got them a room at the local inn, for the night.

“The Crimson Mermaid.” Skye laughed, as they entered the tavern beneath the inn. “That's rich for a landlocked town.”

Geralt looked at her from the corner of his eye and squeezed them shut, she was pleasant, when she was quiet, but her smart ass remarks only made him shake his head at her. “Go find a table, I'll get us a room and some supper.” He told her, not giving her a chance to reply as he parted the sea of tavern crawlers, to the bar and innkeeper.

“Hey there, sweetheart.” A raspy voice slurred as Skye found a seat in the back corner of the tavern.

“Fuck off.” Skye snapped, sliding onto the bench and keeping her eyes off the drunkard, so he didn't get any incentives.

“Aw, why so rough, darling.” He pouted, leaning on the table.

“I said, fuck off.” She barked again, nose wrinkling to the heavy cloud of alcohol that wafted off of him.

“Don't be that way.” He sulked at her. “What are you doing with that mutant son of a bitch, anyway?” He asked, looking over towards Geralt's back.

“Teaching him how to do his job, now get lost.”

“You could teach me my job instead. I'm sure it's more _entertaining_.” The drunk tisked at Skye and reached out to touch her face, only to have a broad hand slap around his wrist and wrench it away from her.

“Do not,” Geralt growled, his teeth bared at the drunk. “touch her.” He hissed, snarling and eyes glowing as his grip tightened on the drunk's wrist, with a stomach churning pop.

Skye looked around them, seeing the patrons of the tavern tense, some of them shifting like they were about to get up and attack Geralt. She quickly stood up and wedged herself between Geralt and the drunk, looking up at the angered Witcher.

“I'm fine, let him go.” She growled at Geralt, in a low voice, and through clenched teeth. “ _Before_ , they kill you.” She tried to sway him, catching two men at a nearby table, that equaled Geralt's size, slowly standing up.

The amber glow of Geralt's gold eyes dimmed hearing her words, and he slowly released the drunk's wounded appendage, looking down at her, his sensitive eyes searching her body for any injury or mark on her, before only slightly relaxing, and giving the drunk a dark look.

“Get lost.” He growled at him, his voice rough with still burning anger. “Now.”

The drunk blinked at Skye and Geralt and back away, the rest of the tavern slowly relaxed and eased back into their chairs. Sky pressed a hand to her face, shaking her head as she sat back down on the bench at their table. Huffing and a growl rumbling in his chest, Geralt picked up the plate of food and two tankards he had set down to deal with the drunk and put them on the table in front of Skye, then took up the bench across from her, sliding a tankard over to her.

“Are you all right?” He asked her, after several swallows of Cintran ale.

“I'm fine.” She replied, coldly, picking at the food he had gotten them.

Geralt sighed, wishing he at least had Roach to chat too, at least he could pretend the mare was answering him in a slightly more willing manner; especially after he saved her from such unwanted attention. They finished their supper in utter silence and started upstairs to their room, Skye stopped in the doorway, seeing the single bed and shook her head.

“Oh no.” She snapped. “If that mutant thinks I'm sharing a bed with him, he's got another thing coming.” She said, still shaking her head.

“You can have the bed.” Geralt said, appearing behind her with one of Roach's saddlebags. “I'll take the floor.” He told her, dropping the bag on the floor on the opposite side of the bed, then looked back at her, still standing in the doorway.

“If I wanted to harm you, I would have already.” He told her, bluntly.

“How comforting.” Skye sighed, closing the door and moving to sit down on the bed.

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose, then made the most comfortable bed he could out of his blankets, using the saddlebag to proper his head up, as a pillow. Skye laid down on her back and stared up at the ceiling, while the room was warmer and more sheltering than how they slept rough the night before, she wasn't at all enthused about sharing such a close space with Geralt.

– –

Geralt didn't snore, but Skye was more than sure that he was asleep.

He hadn't moved in the last two hours, not even a pinkie twitch, as he laid on his back, hands resting on his stomach, his breathing slow and steady, face reasonably relaxed for someone like the Witcher. So, carefully, having left her clothing on, but removed her shoes so they didn't echo on the creaky plank flooring, she tiptoed over to the door. She froze, twisting the handle and looked back over at Geralt, still not the smallest of movements from him. Rolling her eyes at him, Skye opened the door enough to squeeze her body through, slowly closed the door and tiptoed, but rushed, down the hall and down the stairs to the tavern below.

There weren't many people in the tavern any longer, mostly people too drunk to stumble on their way home, slumped over tables and stretched out over benches, the innkeeper cleaning up around them. The innkeeper gave Skye a side eye look as she pulled on her shoes and slipped out the door, but said nothing. She shivered and pulled her cloak tighter around her body, heading in the same direction she and Geralt had come from. The moonless sky was pockmarked with stars, but gave very little light to guide her on as she started back towards home.

She stopped on the edge of town and gulped as she looked at the forest in front of her, but resolved herself, she was going home or she would die trying. She wasn't afraid of Geralt and she sure wasn't afraid of _Destiny_.

Stepping onto the trail that cut through the forest and back towards Dorian, Skye forged on, keeping herself focused on getting back to her family farm, imaging the look of surprise and joy on her mother's face as she entered the dooryard, realizing she'd come back to her, just like she promised she would. The more she thought of her mother, the more relaxed she got and forgot about her growing fright about the forest, each rustle and quick shadow out of the corner of her eyes.

“Shit!” She snapped, freezing at the sound of loud screech, then rolled her eyes. “Shh, you stupid owl.” She barked at the feathery creature, perched on a branch above her.

Calming herself down, Skye continued down the path, berating herself for her foolishness. It was just an owl, she told herself, shaking her head and twisting her hands up in her cloak. But, yet another, screech rang out in the chilly air, stopping Skye in her tracks once again. She looked around for another owl, sure the creature was following her, just to frighten her. But, the huge, _hulking_ , shadow passing through the trees up ahead of her had her heart in her throat and her stomach on the ground between her feet. Even from a distance Skye could smell the putrid stench of the ghoul, no doubt scavenging for something to eat, emerging from its lair from somewhere nearby, and here Skye was, right in the monster's pace. She knew at any moment, the ghoul would catch her scent and start after her, so she started to slowly back up.

Skye missed the shadow moving behind her, soundless, until something tight wrapped around her waist and something else slapped against her face, covering her mouth and startled scream.

“Be quiet.” A voice rumbled low in her ear, breath hot against her skin.

Geralt.

He held her against his hard body, lifting her off her feet and easily stepped backwards into the trees behind them and downwind of the monster that was so close to them, Skye could see its eyes and the ugly grimace of its mouth, stumpy nose sniffing at the air around its head. She gripped Geralt's thick forearm, eyes huge as the beast passed stupidly by them, mere feet from them, almost close enough to be touched. Geralt held Skye tighter against him, every muscle in his body as tightly strung as the string of a lute. When the creature passed by and it was relatively safe, Geralt let Skye go, but gripped her forearm, spinning her around to face him, anger written all over his face.

“What were you thinking?” He hissed at her, the corner of one golden eye twitching. “You could have gotten killed.”

“I would have been fine.” Skye hissed back at him, yanking on her arm, to no avail.

“Really, how would you have defeated the creature, then?” He asked, lifting his brows at her, amused to hear what her strategy would have been.

“Ugh!” She growled at him, fruitlessly shoving his chest. “I hate you.”

“I don't much like you either.” Geralt replied, grabbing her other wrist as she tried to slap him. “But, this is how it is.”

“Another Destiny loving idiot.” Skye spat, trying to break out of his grasp.

“I don't give a fuck about Destiny.” He barked at her, narrowing his eyes and holding onto her.

“Then, why are you keeping me here?” She demanded, stomping her foot.

“Because, payment is payment.” He told her, tightly, sighing. “A promise is a promise.”

“What promise!?”

“Your mother made me promise to take care of you.” Geralt said softly, exhausted, he hadn't slept in nearly three days and it was starting to wear on him. “A promise must always be honored, no matter the price and payment will always be paid.” He told her.

The pair of them were more stuck together than they realized. Destiny had chosen, through the Law of Surprise, that Skye would be Geralt's payment, no matter the price and inconvenience it caused them both. The payment for his act in saving her father would be taken, and a promise from her mother will always be kept. Neither of them liked each other, their tolerance for the other was thinner than a strand of hair, but all things must be honored and upheld, or the whole order of the world would be thrown out of balance.

“I'm not for keeping you prisoner, you're not my prisoner, and I wouldn't do you any harm.” Geralt told her, gently letting her wrists go. “But, we are going to have to put up with each other.”

Skye rolled her eyes, tears balancing on her long lashes, but remained unshed. “Fine.” She rasped, throat tight. “I will go home again.”

Geralt tilted his head at her, pressing his lips together. “One day, I will take you back home, I promise you that.” He told her, sincerely. “But, for now, we must keep on to Kaer Morhen.”

“Lead the way then, Witcher.” Skye lamented, motioning in front of them.


	2. II

“We'll be moving into Kaedwen tomorrow, once we cross the Pontar river.”

Geralt told Skye as they sat at an inn table, in Flotsam. “Then, it'll be about a week, depending if there's any snowfall in the Blue Mountains, until we arrive at Kaer Morhen.” He explained to her, taking a deep drink of his ale.

“If there is snow?” Skye asked, taking a bit of cheese off her plate and popping it into her mouth.

“Then, longer than a week.” He replied, breaking off a chunk of bread they were sharing. “There is something you must understand, beforehand.” He added, taking a moment to eat some of the bread.

“Vesemir isn't going to be happy about you being there--”

“That makes three of us.” She snorted, refilling her tankard.

“I suggest not getting on his bad side, unlike myself, Vesemir will have no issue putting you in your place, if you cross him.” He continued, ignoring her interruption. “Can't say I'd stop him, if he decided too, either.” He added with the faintest smirk, that vanished.

He had grown used to her snappy remarks and sass over the last few days, but for the last day and a half, she'd become uncommonly quiet, reserved. At first, Geralt thought she'd decided to start giving him a sulky silent treatment, but she would occasionally answer or acknowledge him, before going deathly silent again, her expression downtrodden and her minty eyes were dim and cloudy, with Geralt suddenly recognizing it was a bleak sadness.

Letting out a sigh, he pushed aside their plates, getting her depressed attention and cleared his throat. “What is it?”

“What's what?”

“By now, you would have given me, at least, two smart ass remarks and an insult.” Geralt told her, bluntly. “But, all you gave me was a half ass, sassy remark. There must be something wrong with you.”

“Are you unwell?”

“No.” She squeaked, licking her lips and staring down at the stained and scared table between them. “It's nothing you'd understand, so there's no use discussing it.”

“Try me.” He replied, gruffly.

“You probably don't even have one, so what do you care about mine?” Skye hissed, wishing he'd get the hint and leave her be.

“How would you know, if you don't tell me what it is.” Geralt countered, lifting a brow at her.

Skye scowled at Geralt, nostrils flaring, as she suddenly jumped up and slammed her palms on the table top, eyes on fire for a long moment, that faded as quickly as it happened, leaving her even more depressed and exhausted.

“It's my birthday.” She mumbled, before storming off up the stairs, to their room.

“Hm.” Geralt grunted and pressed his lips together, brow furrowed.

Grunting again, Geralt got up from the table, abandoning his and Skye's half touched meal, and went outside to Roach. Reaching into a secret pocket in one of the mare's saddlebags, Geralt removed a light bag of coin and glanced around the town of Flotsam, before striding off towards the merchant's shop.

– –

The merchant gulped as Geralt's large frame filled his shop's doorway. Granted, the man had seen and dealt with Geralt several times over the years, either on Geralt's way to Kaer Morhen or on his way down south, after the first thaw of winter; but Geralt never creased putting the man on edge and giving him palpitations, until he left again.

“W-Witcher.” He mewled, then cleared his throat. “You're a tad late this year..” He said, more trying to settle his own nerves, than to give Geralt friendly conversation.

“Unforeseen circumstances have slowed me down.” Geralt replied, roughly, weaving in and out of the merchant's displays.

“Is there something _specific_ you're looking for?” He asked, tilting his body to the side to catch a glimpse of Geralt, rubbing the soft fabric of a garment.

'What did you get a woman for her birthday?'

Geralt thought, feeling completely out of his depth, then snapped out of it at the sound of the Merchant's voice. “I'm looking for something,” He said, biting the inside of his lip and moved on to another display. “For someone's..” He paused and squeezed the word out of his throat. “ _birthday_.”

The merchant's face went slack, completely dumbfounded by the rough and tumble Witcher's words. “A _birthday_ , as in, _the day_ , someone was _born_?”

“Yes.” Geralt huffed, starting to feel more uncomfortable than he already did.

“We-well, is this _person_ , a girl or a boy?” He inquired, lifting a brow at Geralt's broad back.

“A girl.” Geralt replied, examining some strange trinket, then corrected himself. “A young— _woman_.” He forced out.

“A trinket for a young woman's birthday.” The Merchant nodded, still utterly caught off guard, and half waiting for Geralt to deliver the punchline.

 _'This has to be a joke!'_ The merchant thought. _'What Witcher shopped for a birthday gift; and for a young lady, at that.'_ But, he moved around his counter, nonetheless, to help Geralt find something.

“Who is she to you?” He asked, standing beside Geralt and looking up at him.

Geralt narrowed his eyes at the merchant, expecting some nefarious and bothersome action or remark from the Human. But, his brows grew tighter together, pushing his jaw out and pressing his lips together. But, it was a very valid question to ask.

 _Who_ was Skye to Geralt now?

His pain in the ass, but he wouldn't say that to the merchant. Only one word seemed to encompass the general and complicated situation the pair found themselves trapped in.

“She's my _ward_.” He said, carefully.

The Merchant stared at Geralt for a moment, balancing his answer for a moment, before brushing it off and turning to business; which wasn't getting into the personal business of the White Wolf.

“Let's see what we can find for her?” He grinned, becoming all chipper and business-like.

– –<.center>

Skye was sitting on the bed in their room, when Geralt returned from the Merchant's shop. She only glanced up at him for a second, then continued brushing her hair. He stopped in front of her, the gift he had gotten clutched in his hand. He struggled on how to approach the subject with her, out of his depth and comfort zone.

Geralt never worried about birthdays before, there was no need too, he didn't celebrate them and he'd been alive for nearly a century; it got fruitless after you hit ninety, and still looked like a thirty year old. But, he remembered, like it was yesterday, the heavy feeling of being homesick, stuck with people you didn't want to be around and have anything to do with; Geralt could empathize with her on that.

The smallest understanding they had, adding the first plank of building a bridge over the gulf between them.

“I-” He started, licking his lips and looking around the room, sheepishly. “I...uh, understand...” He squeezed his eyes shut, questioning why he was even doing this in the first place. “You were right, when you said, I didn't understand anything about birthdays.” He told her, his voice steadying.

Skye looked up at him, with an expression of soft exhaustion, depression and slight impatience; but she didn't answer him.

“We may not like each other, but that doesn't mean we can't tolerate and understand each other.” He continued, opening his hand to her.

He held out the simple birthday gift he had gotten for her. It was a bracelet, made with two different types of beads; black lava and pale jade, both of which matched her hair and eyes. Geralt had only just realized the coincidence of it, as she reached out to take it from him. Skye soothed her fingers over the eighteen alternating beads, threaded through a strong length of leather, with an adjustable sliding knot, holding it all together. She was surprised at Geralt's gesture, she expected nothing from him, not even a quick word or an off-hand gesture, she didn't expect him to understand how she felt about the whole situation, being ripped away from home and family.

 _'What did a murdering, mutant understand about any of that?'_ She thought, pulling the sliding knot open.

She sighed, licking and biting her lip, feeling a hot bubble of emotion trying to push to the forefront. It took several swallows to get the bubble down, before she was able to speak. “Th-thank you.” She sniffled, slipping the bracelet onto her left wrist.

Geralt bit his bottom lip, feeling conflicted. “Do you—like—it?” He dared to ask.

“I do.” Skye said, softly, nodding her head at him.

“Hm.” He replied, eyes losing focus as he glanced around the room, uncomfortable again. “Good.” He mumbled, and went to his corner of the room.

Skye laid back on the bed, folding her arm over her stomach and gently stroked the beads of the bracelet, silent tears dripping down her face.

– –

Geralt paid the ferryman for their passage across the river and led Roach onto the ferry moored at the river's edge, Skye already ahead of him. The ride on the ferry took no more than thirty minutes, but it was a nice change from walking and riding; someone else doing all the work of getting them to Kaer Morhen, before the first serious freeze set in. Geralt was concerned they wouldn't make it before that happened, which would make getting to the stronghold cumbersome, at best.

But, they'd get there, one way or another.

Geralt moved from the edge of the ferry and caught sight of Skye standing beside Roach, gently rubbing her nose, and smiling. He blinked several times, to make sure he was actually seeing it, and sure enough, it was still there. It wasn't a sassy and forced smile either, it was genuine, he'd never seen one on her face before, and what it did to her face was startling to the Witcher. Skye looked up from Roach, feeling a pair of eyes on her and saw Geralt staring at her. Her smile dimmed, but didn't go away altogether, as she kept petting Roach, who nudged her shoulder, to get Skye's attention back on her, and not on Geralt.

“I've never seen her like that with anyone else, but me.” Geralt commented, not moving from his spot.

Skye looked back at Roach, after another shoulder bump. “She's a good horse.” She commented, her smile returning as she focused back on the mare. “Strange name, though.”

“I've named all of my horses, Roach. No matter what kind or gender.” He explained, watching Roach practically melt under Skye's attention.

“Seriously?” Skye snorted, chuckling at him. “Not very original of you.”

“Well, it works.” Geralt replied with a huff, but good natured. “What would you have named her?” He asked, curiously.

Skye stared at Roach for a few minutes, rubbing her nose with the heel of her palm, which Roach seemed to really like. “Daisy.”

Geralt's face went blank, then shook his head at her. “Absolutely not.”

“What's wrong with Daisy?”

“I'm a Witcher, I can't go around with a horse named Daisy.” He argued, folding his arms over his chest. “The Butcher of Blaviken and his horse, _Daisy_. Sounds horrible and pathetic.”

“Don't listen to him, Daisy.” Skye cooed at the horse, pressing her palms to either side of Roach's face. “I don't think you're horrible and pathetic, he's just calling the kettle black.”

“You're going to give her a complex.” Geralt huffed at her.

“She already has a complex.” Skye countered, looking back at him. “She's a horse, named after a fish and a bug.” She said, chuckling at him.

Geralt would have said more, if the ferry dock didn't come into view up ahead. “Come on.” He sighed, taking Roach's reins and waiting, while the ferryman positioned the ferry against the dock and moored it, securely.

– –

It was as Geralt worried, the first snowfall had happened in the Blue Mountains. He could see it as he, Skye and Roach entered High Rock, or Ard Carraigh, as it was called in Elder Speech. He looked Skye over as they entered the main hub of Kaedwen, where King Henselt sat on his throne and ruled. She was in the spare set of clothing her mother had packed her two weeks beforehand, neither set of her clothing would keep her warm and from getting frostbite on their two day trek to Kaer Morhen from High Rock, she'd be blue and toe-less at the close of the first day.

“Hm.” He grumbled, pressing his lips together.

“What are you grunting about now, Witcher?” Skye asked, glancing at him as they walked down the center of the city.

“You.” Geralt grunted back, already seeing the shiver in her shoulders and the almost cherry-red tips of her ears. “You'll never survive getting through the pass to Kaer Morhen with what you're wearing.” He commented, giving her another once over.

“Then, I'll stay here.” She replied, half smirking at him.

“Nice try.” He huffed, shaking his head at her. “Come with me.”

“Fine.” She sighed, it wasn't like she hadn't been following him already.

Geralt led them down a side street and tethered Roach to a support post of a store front's awning. Opening the door to the shop and holding it, Geralt looked at Skye and motioned inside with a jerk of his head. So, Skye stepped inside the dim shop, and saw that it was a tailor's shop. A clerk appeared before them from somewhere behind a huge rack of colorful and bolted fabrics, seeing Skye first, and gave her a charming smile, as he sized her up with the eye of a man that had been in the business long enough, that he didn't need to break out the measuring tape to find out her measurements. _Then_ , he saw Geralt, standing a few steps behind her, and blanched.

“Witcher.” He gulped, sounding like a teeny mouse.

“She needs warmer clothing.” Geralt said, ignoring the tone of the tailor's voice and the expression on his pinched face. “Quickly.” He added, impatiently, he wanted to get to Kaer Morhen before any more snow fell.

“Yes. Right!” The tailor yipped, bouncing on his thick soled shoes. “Of course. Exactly, very right. Yes, yes!” He nodded, properly looking Skye over.

Skye narrowed her eyes and lifted a brow at the tailor, then looked back at Geralt, with an expression that asked; _'Is this guy all right?'_. To which, Geralt rolled his eyes and nodded his head. Scoffing lightly, Skye allowed the tailor to take her by the wrist and drag her around the shop, picking up fabric swatches and putting them down with a disappointed shake of his head, only to bounce back with a burst of unnatural enthusiasm and drag her elsewhere in the shop. After several turns around the shop, the tailor finally found his bearings, and got down to getting Skye appropriate clothing for the winter.

Geralt leaned his shoulder against the wall behind them, watching the tailor work and Skye politely oblige him, whenever the tailor needed her to move in a certain way, or asked her to hold something for him; a needle, pins or a pair of scissors. He felt a very teeny twinge in the deepest part of his stomach, each time she smiled at the little tailor, or chuckled at a stupid tailoring joke of his.

“She looks good, no?” The Tailor inquired of Geralt, smiling at him over his shoulder.

“She—does.” Geralt replied, nodding his head, awkwardly.

The dark blue fabric complimented her mint eyes, raven black hair and skin tone, hugging her body in just the right ways. The cloak the tailor presented her, was a warm grey color, with a hood, and a darker wool lining on the inside of it, for added warmth, a small hidden pocket and a metal clasp to keep it closed.

“No need.” The Tailor tutted at Geralt, returning several of the gold coins he'd given him as payment for Skye's new clothing. “The cloak is completely on me. It's found it's proper home with her.” He smiled at Skye with a polite bow of his salt and pepper head.

Geralt blinked at the little man, then grunted, dropping the returned coins back into their pouch. “Come on.” He said, softly to Skye, turning to go.

“Va feill.” The Tailor bid Skye, with another tip of his head and a strange glint in his eye.

“Thank..you.” Skye replied, frowning at him and following after Geralt. “What was with the Elder Speech.” She mumbled, more to herself than Geralt.

“He only said, goodbye.” Geralt replied, untying Roach's reins.

“I know that.” She answered, still frowning. “But, the whole time, he only spoke to me in common tongue, why suddenly change.”

“He was probably trying to woo you.” He snorted, amused at the thought.

“Ew.” Skye snapped, grimacing at him.

Geralt smirked at her, chuckling. “I have a few more things I need to do, before the day is out.” He told her, changing the subject. “We'll need a few supplies before we start for the last bit to Kaer Morhen. I'll leave you at the inn and join you there, when I'm finished.”

“I don't mind going with you.” Skye told him, sighing. “I'm less likely to start talking to my horse that way.”

“But, you don't have a horse.” He pointed out, lifting a brow at her.

“Exactly.” She laughed and smiled at him.

Geralt felt the tiny twinge in his stomach again. “Fine, you can come with me.” He said, and led Roach back towards the center of town.

They stopped at several shops that dotted the streets of High Rock, Geralt sold several pelts he had taken during his few months of traveling in the lower parts of the Continent, using that gold to buy himself, Skye and Roach things they would need for the next few days, mostly food, and an extra blanket. Satisfied, Geralt took them to the inn for supper and a room.

Skye laid in bed that night, like she had for the last fortnight, waiting for exhaustion to creep deeper into her and fall asleep, but she wasn't having any luck with it tonight. Maybe she was just so tired, she couldn't sleep. Or, she was worried about finally getting to the Witcher stronghold and the unknown that was there.

“Why aren't there any more Witcher?” She asked out loud, knowing by the periodic sighs and shifting, that Geralt was still awake, she'd learned the quiet differences between the Witcher being awake and asleep over the long nights.

Another heavy sigh filled the room, then a slight rustling. “Because,” He finally answered, his voice rough. “Kaer Morhen was sacked, several decades ago, not long after I finished my training as a Witcher. A group of fanatics attacked the stronghold, killing dozens of teachers, students and Witchers, as well as destroying the herbs and texts that were used in making more Witchers. They believed, like countless others, that we are abominations and needed to be gotten rid of.” He explained to her.

“And, those of you that survived, were not there, when it happened?” She asked, frowning up at the ceiling, unconsciously twisting the black and green bracelet around her wrist.

“Exactly.” Geralt affirmed, folding his arms behind his head. “Only Vesemir survived the attack, but was gravely wounded.”

“Did any of you go after them?” Skye inquired, rolling over onto her side to peer over the edge of the bed at Geralt, who was sprawled out on the floor with his bedroll. “Get revenge, and all that.”

“A couple of the remaining Witchers did, but I didn't.” He replied, turning his head to look back at her. “It wouldn't have solved anything, or brought any of the dead back. So, I just kept on with my business as a Witcher.”

“I would have hunted them all down.” She retorted, rolling onto her back again. “Made them pay.”

Geralt chuckled, smiling to himself. “I'm sure you would have sassed them all to death.” He laughed. “Hey!” He snapped as her pillow smacked him in the face. “I'm keeping this.” He told her, tucking it beneath his head.

“Whatever, _mutant_.” Skye laughed, then sighed, relaxing enough to doze off.

Geralt bit his lip, hearing her call him a mutant, like a needle thin pain through the chest and melting the smile off of his face, listening to her breathing even out and her heartbeat slow as she fell asleep. It took him a bit longer to fall asleep himself, shoving that pain into the dark corner of his heart, where he shoved all his other emotions.

“Renfri.”

Skye stirred at the sound, groaning, and dropped back off to sleep.

“Renfri.”

She stirred again, pulling further out of sleep.

“Renfri.”

It came again, pulling Skye completely out of her dreams. She laid there for a few minutes, trying to pick up on what woke her in the first place, and it came again, a minute later.

“Renfri.”

Rolling onto her side, she looked over at Geralt, on his back and propped up on one of Roach's saddlebags and her pillow, his scarred face pinched and furrowed, obviously bothered by whatever dream he was having. Skye had been woken up by Geralt calling out the name a few times over the two weeks with him, always wondering who Renfri was, and why she had such a tight hold on Geralt, that he would be calling out her name in the middle of the night.

“Renfri.” He mumbled again.

Frowning, Skye sat up, toes curling as they touched the cold floor boards, and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at him, and waiting. When Geralt whimpered out Renfri's name again, this time more pained, Skye stretched out a careful foot and poked at Geralt's thick arm with her icy toes, making him hiss in his sleep and shift, but not wake. Skye drew her foot back and watched him again, time ticked by, and Geralt settled, no longer calling out Renfri's name, then Skye laid back down, rolling herself up in her blankets to drive out the cold and went back to sleep.

– –

“You sleep well, with _my_ pillow, Witcher?” Skye asked the next morning as she pulled on her boots and Geralt rolled up his blankets.

“Like a rock, Human.” He replied, tucking the rolled up blankets into his saddlebag. “You?” He asked, watching her yawn.

“Probably would have,” she replied, stifling it. “If I didn't have to hear you call out for Renfri all night.” She told him, with a smirk that was meant to be playful.

“Again.”

Every fibre of Geralt's body froze at the mention of Renfri's name, mouth slightly open and eyes wide. Skye frowned at the sudden change over the Witcher, she'd never seen him look startled before, she started to worry she'd crossed a line and poked a wound she had no idea was there, and still extremely raw on the Witcher's sleeve.

“I'm sorry, I--”

“It's fine.” Geralt grunted, his face suddenly going unreadable, and took up the saddlebags, quickly carrying them out of the room, and leaving Skye standing there, shocked.

They didn't speak the rest of the day, even though Skye had actually tried talking to Geralt, changing the dynamic of their situation. Skye was no longer the silent and unwilling commentator to something Geralt would say, trying to clear up the almost always awkward silence that bubbled around them as they traveled. It was now Geralt, who was refusing to speak and answer her, only giving her the very occasional sigh or grunted 'hm', before going silent again, eyes straight ahead.

“Who was she?” Skye asked, as they stopped for a few minutes to rest. “Renfri.”

Geralt pressed his lips together and shook his head at her, he didn't want to have this conversation, it wouldn't help anything, especially when Skye hears he ended up killing Renfri, the year before.

– –

Geralt had just wanted to sell the Kikimora he had killed out in a swamp outside Blaviken, nothing more, that was it. He entered the Blaviken tavern and immediately every patron in the place were shushed into silence at the appearance of the massive Witcher, covered in his black cloak, hood pulled up, but still showing off the unmistakable white of Geralt's hair, dripping in front of his face.

“What will it be?” The barmaid asked, when Geralt stepped up to the bar.

“Point me to the alderman's house.” Geralt rasped at her, setting a piece of damp and wrinkled parchment on the bar top.

“It's down the alley to the left--”

“Isadora!” A gruff voice shouted, coming up to her with a rude expression, chasing her off, then turned his attention to Geralt. “We don't want your kind here, Witcher.”

“The Alderman,” Geralt replied, unphased by the innkeeper. “Tell me where he is and I'll be on my way.”

“You don't give the orders around here, you mutant, son of a bitch.” Another male voice barked behind Geralt.

“Hear that?” The Innkeeper asked Geralt, who growled back. “Go. On your own or at the end of a rope, your choice.”

“Not a hard choice.” Geralt replied, turning away from him.

“Yeah, fuck that. Kill him with your bare hands if you have to.” The Innkeeper told the other man, and causing several other people to stand up from a nearby table.

“C'mon, Witcher. You're not scared of us, are ya?” The man asked, giving him a smug look. “Show us what you've got.” He taunted Geralt, trying to gain a reaction out of him.

“Can you not leave it alone for a moment.” A woman at the end of the bar barked, dropping a piece of her food back onto her plate and turned towards the men.

There was a tense silence before the innkeeper replied to her. “Witchers can't be trusted,--”

“I'm not speaking to you.” She snapped at him, then looked to the back of Geralt. “I apologize for my man's interference in your day.” She assured him, looking at her group over Geralt's shoulder. “Hopefully he can improve his behavior by tomorrow's market.”

“Sorry, Renfri.” The man replied, clearly angered he didn't get to beat Geralt up, but did as she said, nonetheless.

– –

“She was a girl, I knew.” He replied with a heavy sigh and cast his eyes to the dark grey sky.

“She must have been some girl to leave that kind of lasting impression on you.” Skye replied, softly.

“She was.” Geralt nodded, a troubled look in his golden eyes. “She was a Princess.” He told her, quietly.

“Did she break your heart?” Skye asked, tilting her head at him.

“I'm a Witcher, I don't fall in love.” Geralt scoffed at the idea of such a thing.

Even though Geralt had fallen for Renfri.

“I didn't say anything about loving her.” She replied, blinking at him. “You don't have to love someone, for them to break your heart. I didn't love my father, and he still broke mine.” She explained to him, tucking her hands into her cloak.

Geralt stood there for a long moment and stared up at the path they were traveling on, his warm breath a misty cloud in front of him, as he twisted Roach's reins in his hands, flashes of Renfri in his mind's eye. “She di--” He choked around the words. “She made her choice, and I'll never know, if it was the right one.”

“Can't you ask her?” Skye asked, innocently.

“No, she's dead.” Geralt replied, gruffly. “And, I killed her.”

Skye's eyes grew large at Geralt's words, mouth dropping open. “ _You_ killed _her_?” She swallowed and shivered.

Geralt let out a harsh breath through his nose, looking almost like an angry dragon, then thrust out Roach's reins to Skye, and stormed off once she took them.

“Hey!” Skye called after him, watching him go. “You can't just--” Her shoulders slumped as he disappeared and looked up at Roach. “Well, he's not ditching me, since he left you here with me.” She commented to the mare, then slapped her rosy cheek.

“Damn it, now he's got me talking to you.”

Skye stood there with Roach for almost twenty minutes, before she heard the crunching of Geralt's boots coming back towards her, an armload of sticks. “Are we camping here?” She asked, as he dropped his load and started etching out a circle in the snow with the heel of his boot.

“It's not even dark yet, it's barely even noon!”

“We're camping here.” He barked at her, working on getting a fire going.

“Okay.” She sighed, throwing her hands up.

“I gave her a choice.” Geralt finally spoke after getting the fire going and staring at it for nearly an hour.

“To live or to die?” Skye asked, lifting a brow at her.

Geralt gave her a look and Skye put her hands up in apology. “I gave her a choice to leave Blaviken, and finally live.” He told her, continuing on.

“Wait,” Skye interrupted him again. “This is what happened, this is what dubbed you the Butcher of Blaviken, you killing a Princess in their marketplace?”

“It's far more complicated than that.” Geralt replied, tossing another stick into the fire.

“Well, we don't have anything else to do.” She retorted, looking around them.

Geralt licked and pressed his lips together, studying her as she studied him back. She could see that the ordeal was troubling the Witcher, or he wouldn't be calling out the Princess's name every night, like clockwork.

“I went to Blaviken, after seeing a notice for a monster.” He sighed, clearing his throat and staring into the flames between them. “I found a Kikimora, in a swamp, just off the road between Blaviken and Crinfrid. After fighting and killing the creature, and putting a small deer out of its misery..” He looked up at her.

“It had been injured during the Kikimora and I's scrape.” He clarified, seeing her startled expression.

Skye blinked at him, nodding her head for him to continue.

“As said, I loaded the Kikimora up onto Roach, made a useful breakfast out of the deer, then headed into Blaviken to see the Alderman. I didn't know where the Alderman's was, so I stopped at the local tavern for directions.” He wiped his dripping nose on his glove. “I wasn't surprised, when they all stared at me, I've been dealing with it for too long. I asked the barmaid for directions and she had started to give them to me, until the innkeeper interrupted and, in no uncertain words, told me to fuck off.”

“Obviously, you didn't.”

“If I fucked off every time a Human told me too, that's all I'd ever be doing.” Geralt replied, narrowing his eyes at her.

“However, when I told him I would leave, after he told me where the Alderman's was, a group of men at a table in the tavern, decided they wanted in on the conversation and to fight me. Words ensued and Renfri, who was at the end of the bar, having her own breakfast, told _them_ to fuck off, since she was their leader.”

“After that was settled, Renfri offered me a drink and a bit of food, much to everyone's horror.” He sighed, toeing at the ground. “I took the ale, though, and we spoke, until a small girl appeared in the bar, Marilka. Her father was the Alderman...”

– –

“How much coin for your Kikimora then?” Marilka asked, folding her short arms on the bar top beside Geralt, as Renfri refilled his tankard with ale.

Geralt looked to Renfri, a silent conversation going between them, before frowning at Marilka and pointing her to the door. Smiling at the Witcher, the young girl followed him out to Roach and the dripping carcass of the Kikimora.

“You mentioned coin.” Geralt rasped at her.

“Yes.” Marilka replied, lifting the tarp Geralt had fastened over the creature. “Isadora said you were looking for my father.” She explained to him. “She's a gossip, you see. You probably weren't two feet into Lord's Inn, before she was running off telling everyone that would listen, an evil Witcher had arrived in town.” She glanced at Geralt from the corner of her eye, as he stood beside her, brooding.

“You don't scare me.”

“That's too bad.” Geralt replied, frowning at her harder.

“I can also tell you, my father won't have any use for this beast.”

“Your father, the alderman?” He asked, tilting his head at her. “He posted a flyer.”

“For a Graveir,” She corrected him, soothing down the tarp. “Kikimoras are useful.”

Geralt gave the strange girl a narrowed look. “Hm.”

“Population control.” She pointed out to him, like it should have been obvious to the Witcher. “You should speak to our Wizard, Master Irion. He's willing to pay for odds and ends that he needs for elixirs. I sold him my dog, when it died.”

“Mysteriously.” She added, eyes panning around.

Geralt stared at her for a moment, considering his options. “Fine, take me to him.”

“I got fifteen crowns for the mutt, that's enough for some new clothes.” She told him, starting off in the direction of the Wizard's lodgings. “Just saying.” She added over her shoulder.

Geralt walked alongside the girl, leading Roach along with them, as the girl asked him various questions on creatures he might have killed, most of which didn't exist, but he let her babble on as they walked through the rainy and muddy town towards a tall tower at the end of the lane.

“A she-wolf?”

“That's not a thing.” Geralt scoffed, shaking his head.

“Oh, so you've killed the rest?” She asked, looking almost star struck at the idea of it. “I think that makes you a hero. Though, my mother says you're a spawn of foul sorcery, a diabolic creation, a dirty degenerate, born from hell.”

“Have you ever been to hell? I've never been out of Blaviken, cause my mother's never left Blaviken, and whatever is good enough for her, is good enough for Marilka. That's me, Marilka. Like, _milk_.” She rambled on, not caring if Geralt answered or acknowledged her or not.

“What's your name?”

“Geralt.”

“Like, Garroter. That's cool, where are you from, Geralt?”

“Rivia.”

“I don't know where that's at, but I could learn.”

“No.”

“Why, cause girls can't be Witchers? Which I think is the stupidest thing I've ever heard.” She whined at him, making him chuckle. “I don't know what to do with the rest of my life, other than going to the boring old market.”

“And, killing rats.” Geralt laughed.

“And dogs.” She pointed out, smiling. “This is Master Irion's tower.” She said, point at it.

Geralt looked up at the dingy tower that loomed above them, easily the tallest structure in Blaviken, by several feet. He told Marilka to hold Roach and approached the thick oaken doors of the tower, suddenly feeling the wolf medallion around his neck vibrate, warning him of the presence of very strong magic. Looking back at the girl and Roach, Geralt stepped through the doors, finding that they were indeed an illusion and not real wood doors.

“Hm.”

He grunted, looking around the copied Eden inside the tower, tall trees and bushes, bearing ripe fruits that naked women picked and put into the weaved baskets, propped on their hips. None of them took notice of Geralt, or acted like they didn't, as he glanced around, in search of the so-called resident Wizard.

“Greetings, I am Stregobor, Master Stregobor, and this is my tower.”

“I have a Kikimora for master _Irion_.” Geralt replied, lifting a brow at the Wizard.

“Yes, forgive the confusion, this was Master Irion's tower, but he's been dead these two hundred years. So, I've taken it over and taken his name as my own personal sobriquet.” Stregobor explained to Geralt.

“He create this illusion too?” Geralt asked, motioning to the naked, fruit picking, women.

“No, that was my own doing, makes passing the time more delightful.” Stregobor grinned, quite proud of himself for it.

“Because you're in hiding, _Stregobor_.”

“How intelligent of you, _Witcher_.” He replied, with a smug and tight smirk, turning to the side so Geralt could walk beside him. “It's not often we see your likeness here in Blaviken.” He commented, looking Geralt over in his leather armor.

“Not many of my likeness left.” Geralt huffed, rolling his eyes.

“I'd offer you my sympathies, but I seem to remember, Witchers don't feel anything. I am grateful that Destiny brought you to me, though.”

“Marilka brought me to you.”

“Marilka, Marilka works for me.” The Sorcerer corrected Geralt, pausing in an archway. “On important matters.”

“A Wizard, who uses an alias, and uses a young girl to procure him a Witcher.” Geralt pointed out, getting it all now. “You don't want my Kikimora, you want me to kill your monster.”

“Very Clever.” Stregobor complimented him. “Indeed.”

“What kind of monster?”

“The worst kind, a human.” He informed him, shifting, obviously uncomfortable with the situation. “Her name is Renfri.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes at the sorcerer as he continued down the hallway, a twinge in his gut as he followed him.

– –

“So, this random Sorcerer wanted you to kill Renfri.” Skye asked, when Geralt paused to grab a wine skin from Roach's bag.

“Why?”

“I'm getting to that.” Geralt replied, wetting his dry throat, then held it out to her. “Be patient.” He told her, settling back in and held his hands over the fire for a moment, rubbing them together.

– –

“Destiny has many faces, Witcher.” Stregobor explained as he held up a ripe apple. “Mine, for instance, is beautiful on the outside, but hideous on the inside. She has stretched her bloody claws towards me.”

“Wizards are all the same.” Geralt growled. “You all talk nonsense, while making wise and meaningful faces.” He huffed, unamused.

“Speak, normally.”

Stregobor narrowed his eyes at Geralt for a moment, the apple between his fingers slowly fading out of existence, seeing Geralt wasn't going to take his philosophical ranting. “Have you ever heard of the Curse of the Black Sun?” He asked, after a moment. “First full eclipse in twelves hundred years, the supposed imminent return of Lilit, Demonic goddess of the night, sent to exterminate the human race. Sixty young girls wearing gold crowns, who would fill the river valleys in blood.”

“Hm.” Geralt groaned, leaning on a large stone vase beside him, weighing the wizard's words. “Doesn't rhyme, all good predictions rhyme.”

“I studied these girls born under the Black Sun, all of them had internal mutations. I tried to cure them, but they always died. There were autopsies, of course. But all of them had mutations.”

“Innocent women are dead.” That's when it really dawned on Geralt. “But not the beautiful one, Renfri.”

The wizard went on to explain to Geralt how Renfri had tortured animals and her maid as a child, despite Stregobor's attempts to _cure_ her. Renfri had been a Princess, daughter of a Prince in Creyden, before running away and joining a band of thieves, becoming their leader and organizer. Stregobor even attempted to assassinate Renfri, sending someone into the woods to follow her and kill her at the best opportunity, only to find out later that she had managed to kill the man with her mother's antique brooch, through his ear. He organized a large group to go after the girl, but for two years there was nothing about her, until one day she showed up in Blaviken, having tracked Stregobor himself there, looking for revenge.

“She robbed and murdered merchants along the roads of Mahakam, and soon picked up sword skills. Now, no man can defy her, so it's been said.”

“You're not a man, you're a magician.”

“She's immune to magic.”

“It's impossible in Humans.”

“Not mutated ones. She's chased me for years, wanting revenge, and arrives here, just as you do. Destiny.” Stregobor whispered, almost like he was afraid to jinx it. “Kill her for me, I'll pay you with anything.”

“I kill monsters.”

“Renfri is a monster.” Stregobor argued, desperate. “A Kikimora kills to eat, Renfri kills because she feels like it. Who's the bigger monster there, Witcher?” He demanded of Geralt.

Geralt shook his head and turned to leave, he'd take the loss on payment for the Kikimora, but he wasn't going to kill a Human, it wasn't his job to get between the grudge match between two people, so seemingly hell bent on killing each other. If they wanted the other one dead, they could do it themselves and leave Geralt out of it.

“She has the power to destroy us all!” Stregobor yelled at Geralt's back.

“I don't believe anyone has that power.” He said, turning back to the Wizard.

“With the fate of the Continent at stake, is that a risk you're willing to take?” He asked him, grasping at anything to sway Geralt's choice. “There's your rhyme. It's for the lesser evil!”

“I haven't done a whole lot of good in my life either,” Geralt reasoned with him. “Evil is Evil, Stregobor. Lesser, Greater or Middling, it's all the same. I'm not judging you, but now, if I have to choose between one evil and another, then I prefer not to choose at all.” He told him, then walked away for good.

– –

Skye sat across from Geralt, blindly sipping at the wine skin as all her focus and attention was on him, enraptured by the story he was telling her. Geralt paused for a moment and regarded her, it was the first time both of them had spoken like this, for so long and on such a deep subject. He felt his mouth and throat go dry again on how engrossed she was by it, by _him_ , she was quiet, and not because she was being difficult or there was a lack of subject. Licking his lips, he reached his hand out again, wiggling his fingers for the wine skin.

“Right, sorry.” Skye squeaked, handing it back to him, their fingers brushing for a moment as he grasped it. “So, you told the Wizard you weren't going to kill her for him, then ended up doing it anyway?” She asked, impatient for the rest of his story, hugging her cloak in around her as a breeze stirred up.

“I didn't want to kill her.” Geralt replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I didn't want to get involved, whatsoever.”

“So, what's the rub, then?” She asked, folding her arms into her lap and leaning forward.

Amber-Gold and Minty-Green pooled together as the pair of them stared at each other over the dancing and licking flames of the campfire. Neither of them spoke for a moment, but as they talked and stared, more planks were being added to the slow building of the bridge, joining them closer and closer together as time passed them by.

“The _rub_ ,” Geralt chuckled, smiling at her, despite the raw throb of his heart. “Is that Renfri also wanted me to kill Stregobor, for her.”

“Really!” Skye laughed, shaking her head, astonished.

“Yes.” He nodded, taking another sip of wine. “She came to me, while I was camped in the forest nearby. She knew Marilka took me to Stregobor and that he asked me to kill her.”

– –

“I know who you are, Renfri.” Geralt rasped, standing up from the stream he was knelt by.

“Then you know I want to kill Stregobor.” Renfri replied, unapologetic. “I was a Princess, did he mention that? Until he sent a thug into the woods to kill me.”

“You killed him.” Geralt countered, kneeling back down beside the stream.

“With my mother's brooch.” She answered, as Geralt picked a plant from the stream's edge. “Stregobor's man raped and robbed me, before letting me go. No more princess. So, I stole, rather than starve. Killed, rather than be killed. Nohorn and the men found me, saved me, and they'll be by my side at the market, when I kill Stregobor, Lilit help me, I will take down anyone that tries getting in my way.”

“Unless, Destiny intervenes and you kill him for me.” She added, giving Geralt a sweet smile, like she thought it would sway him to her side. “It's the lesser evil.”

“So, I keep getting told.” Geralt sighed, standing up and going back to Roach.

“Stregobor asked you to kill me too.” She stated, she could see it in Geralt's face. “Cause I was a girl born during an eclipse. Calanthe just won her first battle at Hochebuz, but here I am trying to convince _you_ that I'm not a--”

“Monster.” He finished the sentence for her. “Are you?”

“How am I to know. When I prick my finger, I bleed. When I eat too much, my stomach aches. When I'm happy, I laugh. When I'm upset, I swear, and when I hate someone, for taking everything from me, I kill him.”

“Hm.”

“People call you a monster too.” She pointed out, looking him over.

“A _mutant_.” Geralt corrected her, even though he'd been called a monster as well.

“Why not attack them?” Renfri asked, bluntly. “When they come after you.”

“They have.” Geralt smiled, smugly. “More times than I care to count.”

“Then, why not kill them?”

“Because then,” Geralt sighed at her, so young and naive, even for all she'd been through, and stepped closer to her. “I am what they say I am.”

Renfri stared at him, seeing the same losing battle and argument that Stregobor himself had with Geralt in Blaviken. “If I tell you, Witcher, that I can't forgive Stregobor or renounce my revenge upon him, is that it?”

“I admit to being a monster?”

“Yes.” Geralt nodded. “Or, you can leave Blaviken, and finally live.” He told her, before leading Roach away. “You choose, Princess.”

It was later that night, while Geralt was telling Roach about his first monster, a man that had dragged a girl from her father's cart, tore her clothing off and tried raping her, that Renfri came upon him again, hiding among the trees as he told the story, the two bloody blows it took to kill the man and the girl's reaction of being drenched in the man's blood, screaming at the top of her lungs, puking up the contents of her stomach and passing out.

“Who were you talking to?” She finally asked, when he finished and went about making himself something to eat.

“My horse.” He replied, not looking at her, knowing she'd been there the whole time. “I talk to my horse.”

“That's sad.”

“Is it?” Geralt asked, lifting a brow as he focused on his food.

“Tell me, you don't believe in Destiny or the lesser evil, what do you believe in?” She asked, studying him.

“You mean, _who_ do I believe in, I don't pick sides.”

“You just kill monsters.”

Geralt nodded and pointed at her.

Renfri stepped out from behind the tree she was standing at and approached him, regarding him for a moment before sitting down beside him. “You gave me an ultimatum, and I find they work.” She told him. “Tomorrow I'll leave Blaviken, for good.”

“My men love me, and I love them. But, it's been a long time since someone saw me, like you do.” She told him softly. “When I was a girl, my mother would run her fingers through my hair and say, 'I'd give a lovely lintar',” Her fingers lighted atop her knee as she recalled those sweet moments, before her life turned upside down. “to know the thoughts that laid within.”

Geralt set his food down and straightened his back to look at her, eyebrow still lifted as their eyes met. Her eyes dropped to his lips for a moment, Geralt's eyes doing the same to hers, both of them slowly moving, unconsciously, together. Renfri leaned a bit closer to him, taking him in, before reaching up and gently brushing aside an errant strand of hair out of his eyes. Their eyes were locked together as their lips first touched, the kiss was shy and guarded for a moment, but easily grew into more...

– –

“Whoa, Witcher!” Skye snapped, shaking her head at him. “I don't wanna hear about you fucking a Princess, in the middle of the forest. I don't care how good it was.” She laughed, shyly.

Geralt laughed and grinned at her, incredibly amused by the blush on her face. “To be fair.” He snorted, licking his lip and taking the last gulp of wine. “I'm not sure we actually did, it's a bit of a blur.” He admitted to her.

“But, what I do remember, is her voice.”

“ _You were in the market, covered in blood. You say you can't choose, but you had too, and you'll never know if you were right._ ” Her voice was like an echo in the fog. “ _Your reward will be a stoning, and you will run. You can't not out run the girl in the woods, for she is your Destiny._ ”

“I woke up, and knew that she was going to attack the Blaviken marketplace. I went there, with my sword, expecting a fight.”

– –

“She knew you'd come.” The same man from the tavern said, standing in the marketplace with the rest of the band of men that wanted to kill him.

“Where's Renfri?”

“She's at the tower with your little friend, Marilka.”

“She gave us a message to pass on to you.” Another of the men replied, pulling his weapon. “You have to choose a lesser evil.”

“It's an ultimatum,” A third barked, drawing his weapon and stepping forward. “Get it?”

Geralt sighed, watching the group size him up, rolling his jaw and shaking his head. “Fuck.” He snapped, under his breath.

One of the men raised his crossbow, bolt already drawn back in the mechanism. Time seemed to have slowed down for a moment, just before he pulled the trigger, sending the bolt whizzing through the air, straight towards Geralt's heart. But, with amazing accuracy and agility, Geralt deflected the bolt with his blade, cleaving it in half, the two broken pieces falling to the trodden and rainy mud at his feet.

Not wasting a second, the first man came at Geralt, screaming at the top of his lungs, he parried the man's blade, knocking him off balance and to his knees. With a sick crunch, Geralt's blade went through the man's mouth and out the back of his head, before he wrenched it up, clear out of the man's skull. The rest of them only paused for a split second, shocked at what just happened to their comrade, before fiery anger filled them all and revenge clouded their minds, charging at Geralt, two at a time.

“Witcher!”

He slide the next one's blade up and ducked underneath, stepping forward and slashing his blade across the man's stomach, twisted his blade back up in his hand to deflect the second's axe, driving the tip of his sword into the man's thigh as the previous managed to regain himself, and Geralt finished him off. He easily killed the third, before spearing the sword, he'd taken from him, at the man that shot the crossbow bolt at him; he fell stiffly, like a tree falling over in a windstorm, the sword protruding straight out of his chest. There were three men in a side alley, with small round shields in one hand and a sword in the other, Geralt folded the thumb and pinkie of his left hand into his palm, pointing his three other fingers at them, the sign of an Aard, and hit them with the shockwave. They raised their shields, blocking most of the blast, but Geralt was still coming at them.

His sword went through the neck of the closest one, and through the chest of the second, prying his short sword out of his hand, before letting him fall to the ground; dead. The last one, the one that had called Geralt, a mutant son of a bitch at the tavern, raised his sword, ready for Geralt's attack.

Or so he thought.

He blocked a couple of Geralt's blows, but was no match for the duel wielding Witcher. The short sword went through his chest, and Geralt shoved him back against the door behind him, impaling him. He gripped at the handle, trying to pry it free, as Geralt stepped back. Raising his own sword, then with a quick and precise swing, Geralt cut his head clean off, his body still standing impaled on the door. He stood there for a moment, fighting to catch his breath and process everything that had just happened, when his name rang out in the air.

“Geralt!”

He turned towards the sound.

“Geralt!” Marilka shrieked again, frightened as Renfri held her sword to her throat, pushing her out into the marketplace and before Geralt.

“You chose.”

“Let the girl go.” He said, slowly walked towards her, arms out from his sides.

Renfri glanced down at the terrified girl, almost letting Marilka go for a moment, before her anger broiled again. “I will kill her. I will kill everyone until Stregobor comes down.”

“Let her go.” Geralt pleaded with her again. “Leave Blaviken,” He tried to persuade her, lifting his arm and bringing the fingers of his right hand together, a blue light appearing around them. “It's not too late.”

“Magic doesn't work on me.” Renfri told him. “Silver does, though.”

“Silver is for monsters.” Geralt barked, dropping his hand.

Renfri shoved Marilka away from her and pulled up her sword, resting it on her other arm, and took several steps towards Geralt, who stepped back, shaking his head at her.

“If we cross swords--”

“I won't be able to stop.” She finished for him, before lashing out at him.

Geralt stumbled back, dodging and ducking out of the way of her blade, desperately trying not to fight back, or raise his sword against her. But, he was forced to use his sword to block her quicker and quicker moves. Blocking one of them, he backhanded her across the face and used her surprise to shove her back against a wall.

“They created me, just as they created you.” She growled at him, straining against him. “We're not so different.” She told him, using his distraction, to pull a small dagger and stab him in the side.

Then, they were back at it again, blocking and swinging at each other. Geralt caught her off guard and drove his blade down onto her shoulder, forcing Renfri to her knee. But, she spun around, knocking his blade away and using the dagger to slice into the top of his thigh, and resumed the back and forth with him. Geralt stopped her dagger from catching him again, with his bare hand, and smiled smugly at her, before she yanked it back, cutting his hand open. They moved across the market before he was able to disarm her of her sword. But, it still didn't stop her, she lashed out at him with her dagger, which Geralt barely caught, and pressed her own dagger to her throat. He looked at her, their eyes holding each other's, just like the night before, but both of them knew, if Geralt didn't stop her, she would never stop.

So, he used her own dagger, cutting her neck and watched her bleed out, cradling her against his chest.

“The girl in the woods will be with you always.” She whispered to him, before her eyes went dim and he gently laid her on the ground.

Spent.

– –

“Well?” Skye asked, blinking at him, when he went silent.

“Well?” He replied back, sighing and staring at the fire, the first time in two hours, he wasn't looking in her eyes.

“What happened after that?” She blinked at him, conflicted.

Sighing, Geralt stood up and went to Roach, removing his steel sword from the sheath it shared with his silver one, and brought it back to where he'd been sitting, turning it over and over in his hands, before turning one side of it towards her, his finger tracing a gold ring near the hilt, the emeralds inlaid in it dancing in the light of the campfire. Skye blinked at him, her mouth ajar, realizing it was part of the brooch that Renfri owned, he had integrated it into his sword in memory of her, to remind himself, not to get involved.

“Stregobor wanted to take her back to his tower, to autopsy her.” His voice was soft and distant as he spoke, still tracing the brooch. “I wouldn't let him. I told him not to touch her.” He sighed, licking his lips. “He tried convincing me to let him, that she'd gotten inside my head and poisoned me. But, I knew she hadn't. So, he turned the people of Blaviken against me, telling them that I had butchered all of those people in the street, they believed him.”

“They started jeering and yelling, all sorts of things, throwing rocks as well..”

“The stoning.” Skye whimpered, quietly.

Geralt nodded his head. “He, just like Renfri had, told me I would never know if I made the right choice, if I chose the lesser evil.” He bit his lip for a moment. “I took her brooch, the stoning and the stigma of being the _Butcher of Blaviken_ with me that day.” He looked up and met her eyes again.

“They follow me everywhere, on top of being a Witcher, and a Mutant.”

Skye's eyes glassed over and burned with tears as she looked at Geralt, as she saw Geralt.

She realized then, that the people of Blaviken, her mother, and even herself, were wrong about Geralt. He wasn't an emotionless Witcher, a Mutant and Butcher; he was a person, just like them, that felt. Even though Geralt compressed every feeling he ever had, and ever would have, inside of himself, and presented the emotionless thing everyone that glanced at him would see. He had been hurt so many times, that it was easier not to show it and give into it, it was how he'd survived for so long.

But, Skye could tell, in his darkest moments, when he thought and knew no one could see him, he let himself feel all of those things, to remember he isn't what they all said and accuse him of being.


	3. III

Kaer Morhen, also known as the School of the Wolf, had been the home and stronghold for Witchers throughout the countless centuries. It was huge and bleak, its back butted up against the massive mountain ranges that composed the Blue Mountains of Kaedwen. Several of its towers and walls were in sad disrepair, crumbling and toppled over through the years and years of neglect and inefficient means to repair them. As straight forward the path looked on the way up the mountain towards Kaer Morhen, it wasn't at all what it seemed to the inexperienced eye, or even an experienced one; many Witchers over the years had found themselves lost on the trail, after being away from school for so long, they had forgotten where to look. Anyone seeking entry into Kaer Morhen, and didn't know where to go, would only end up going in circles around the stronghold, and before they even finished the first go around, the Witchers inside would know of their presence.

Geralt and Skye walked along the mountain path towards the stronghold, the snow almost to her knees, the forest around them shushed in the thick blanket of the white powder, a sparse flurry of thick flakes stirred around them in the blowing breeze. The atmosphere around them was so peaceful and calming, the crisp air filling their lungs and making their cheeks rosy in color. Geralt paused for a moment, fumbling for something in Roach's bag, when something smacked him in the back, and he turned around to Skye, who looked behind her, then frowned back at Geralt.

“What?” She lifted a brow at him.

Geralt narrowed his eyes at her. “Did you just throw snow at me?” He asked, suspicious.

“I don't even know what that is.” She countered, frowning at him harder, but her green eyes danced with guilt. “Roach must have done it.”

“While facing me?”

“You're the Witcher, I'm sure you've seen crazier.” Skye grinned at him.

“Hm.” Geralt hummed, shaking his head at her and going back into Roach's bag. “Come along, snow thrower.” He called to her over his shoulder, moving off the path and vanishing into a thicket of trees.

Skye frowned and blinked, then moved after him, following the foot and hoof prints in the once virgin blanket of snow. “Why are we off the path?” She called after him, trying her best to catch up with him through the deep snow.

“Won't we get lost?”

“No, I know where I'm going.” Geralt replied over his shoulder, then paused, letting her catch up. “Here.” He stilled Roach, holding her reins tight and pulled himself into the mare's saddle. “We'll be going uphill the rest of the way and the snow is only going to get deeper. It'll be easier and less of a chore, if we ride Roach.” He explained to her, reaching down to her.

Skye hesitated for a moment, then took his hand, allowing him to boost her up into Roach's saddle behind him; she gulped as she settled behind him, thighs gripping Roach's sides. They had never been in such close and tight proximity, they rarely even touched, unless absolutely required, and even then it was only for a split moment, before breaking apart again. Skye was instantly surrounded by the intense heat of Geralt's body, which nearly matched Roach's, she felt the icicles that had frozen inside of her over the last two and a half days start to drip as they thawed between Roach and Geralt's body heat. It was by pure instinct, that she loosely wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her chest against his board back, slipping a bit closer to him as Roach started forward.

Geralt's body was stiff as they rode towards Kaer Morhen, the solid and light weight of her body pressed against his caused the twinge that had been planted in the pit of his stomach, like a seed in the ground, to start germinate and threatened to send its thin and fragile roots even deeper into the Witcher's body, taking a hold of him, permanently. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing his body and mind to kill it, before it could properly grow and turn into something he simply could _not_ allow to happen, not again.

He couldn't take it again.

As Kaer Morhen finally came into full view, Skye pushed herself up in Roach's saddle to see over Geralt's shoulder to check it out. It was huge, _hulking_ , run down and gloomy, she felt her mood almost plummet, seeing the new _home_ she would be spending the next three month in with Geralt and Vesemir. Her family farm wasn't much, but at least it was a sight better than this place was. She sighed and sat back again, closing her eyes and resting her forehead against Geralt's back, feeling his leather armor underneath his thick black cloak. He sighed softly, knowing she still wasn't happy about all that was going on, the situation seeming more dire than it really was, but they were both learning to tolerate it.

– –

The rusted portcullis of Kaer Morhen's front gate was closed as Skye and Geralt approached on Roach, at last. But, a few feet from it, a groan sounded through the air, both echoing in the vast mountain range and hushed by the thick blanket of snow that surrounded it, an eerie phenomenon, that gave Skye a shiver. The rusted, iron gate started to draw upwards, complaining the whole way up, but Geralt didn't seem alarmed that the gate just suddenly opened, with no one seemingly controlling it.

They proceeded through the stronghold, Skye glancing around at the ruined structures, the wild and overgrown brushes and grass. It felt supernatural and uncanny, like they'd entered some strange and ancient graveyard. Skye felt like she could almost sense and see the residual energy of the Witchers bygone, like they haunted the grounds they had spent so much of their time on, being twisted into advanced humans with vile sorcery. They came to the main building of the stronghold and found a tall man, long gray hair reaching his shoulders and pulled back in a very similar style to Geralt's, with an equally gray, horseshoe mustache and honey-gold eyes.

Skye knew immediately that it was Vesemir, who else could it be?

“Geralt.” Vesemir called out in a deep and raspy voice.

“Vesemir!” Geralt called back with a nod of his head.

“You're late.” The older Witcher pointed out, lifting a gray brow at him. “I didn't think you were coming this winter.” He stated, head tilting as he caught a glimpse of Skye, nearly hidden behind Geralt's wide body.

“Well, I ran into a couple of challenges.” He replied, looking over his shoulder to Skye, who looked terrified, and gave her thigh a gentle pat, before dismounting Roach and helping her down. “Are Lambert or Eskel here?” He asked, tiptoeing around the subject of Skye's presence for a moment.

“Eskel arrived a week ago, he believes Lambert will arrive at some point.” Vesemir replied, cocking his head at Skye. “Who is this?” He asked, turning his head to Geralt, a stern glint in his eyes.

“She's my Law of Surprise.” Geralt explained, glancing between Skye and Vesemir, like he was waiting for a bomb to go off.

Vesemir's eyes narrowed, expression hard, then sighed. “You must be cold, how about some tea?” He inquired, looking at her for a moment, before turning on his heels and going back inside.

“Was that..” Skye turned her head between the door Vesemir went through and Geralt. “Was that a good thing?”

“He didn't throw us out.” Geralt replied, brows lifted and a faint smile, then followed after his old mentor.

Glancing around and clearing her throat, Skye ran after Geralt, following him inside the all stone and drafty keep. Sticking close to Geralt, they walked down a long hallway into a huge and vaulted room, a fire roaring in a massive fireplace, Vesemir standing near it. Geralt motioned Skye to a table and he approached the other Witcher.

“How did you get yourself tied up with a Child of Surprise?” Vesemir asked, staring into the flames. “A female one at that.”

“I saved her father's life, after he was attacked by several drowned dead.” Geralt replied, flexing his frozen fingers in front of the fire. “He was a soldier for Temeria, on his way home for the first time in ages. He didn't know anything about the girl, when we arrived at his farm.”

“But, there she was.”

“So, you brought her here.”

“What was I supposed to do with her?” Geralt snapped, scowling. “Abandon her? Come here and have you scold my ears off about not taking any payment for doing a job.” He argued, shaking his head. “She can be a pain in the ass.”

“And so can you.” Vesemir pointed out, giving Geralt a knowing and stern expression.

Vesemir had known Geralt since he was seven years old, nearly eight decades. He knew all about the Witcher's antics, from killing monsters to Geralt and Eskel causing all sorts of mischief around Kaer Morhen, along with Lambert. The White Wolf had two very different sides, depending on the company he was keeping at the time. In the freedom of Kaer Morhen, Geralt was more himself, than he was anywhere else in the world, but looking him over, Vesemir could see another change coming over Geralt, a change he could just put his finger on and could see Geralt was struggling to keep down and at bay. He looked over at Skye, sipping the tea he had set on the table for her and studied her, while she was unaware of his gaze, she reminded him a bit like Geralt, when he first came and before the trails effectively changed him into what he was now.

“Payment is payment.” He finally agreed. “Is she staying the full winter?”

“Where _I_ go, _she_ goes.” Geralt told him, bluntly.

“Fair enough.” Vesemir chuckled at him.

“Well, hello there!” A deep and raspy voice echoed, catching everyone's attention. “Who are you?”

“Eskel!” Geralt grinned at his fellow Witcher, who was a brother to him.

“Well, shave my goat!” Eskel let out a barking laugh, striding over to Geralt and grabbing him into a bear-hug. “It's good to see you, Geralt! How've you been?”

“I've been well, and you?” Geralt replied, returning the bear-hug.

“Getting older, but not any older than you look.” Eskel roared, his head thrown back.

Geralt had a huge grin on his face, shaking his head and rolling his eyes at Eskel, his body vibrating with an amused laugh. Skye stared at the three Witchers standing together by the fireplace, a smile on all of their faces, a real and fond smile at that, as they caught up with one another, trading jokes, friendly jabs and amusing stories from being on the road the last several months. She was surprised by the change that over took Geralt as he relaxed, the months of dealing with people calling him names, chasing after him and every other unfriendly thing they could throw at him, melted away, like an icicle in spring. A smile came to his face easier, his strong and thick body relaxed and his amber-gold eyes bright and alive. Skye hadn't realized she was smiling back, until Vesemir's eye caught hers and he smirked back at her, making her hide her smile and blush around the lip of her tea cup.

“So, who is she?” Eskel asked, tipping his head towards Skye, without looking at her.

“She's Geralt's Law of Surprise.” Vesemir replied, his eyes moving back to the other Witchers.

Eskel laughed and shook his head. “Geralt of Rivia, with a Child of Surprise.” He took unending amusement from this development. “Did you learn nothing after my business with Deidre?” He asked, smirking at him.

“Skye isn't Deidre.” Geralt growled, offended, and uttered her name for the first time since they met, then glanced at her. “She's different.” He said softly, comfortable in expressing himself to his two old friends.

“She's Human, that's why.” Eskel pointed out, glancing at Skye too. “Deidre was cursed.”

“Well, why don't you show her to a room, Geralt. So, she can settle in.” Vesemir suggested to him. “It'll help her transition smoother, if she feels she has a private space of her own.”

“Especially when she's surrounded by three, maybe four, male Witchers, who's best knowledge of women are whores and witches.” Eskel snorted to himself. “But, she seems sweet enough.”

“She has her moments.” Geralt rasped, feeling a root in the pit of his stomach wiggle deeper into his gut.

“Off you go, then. I'm sure you both want to settle in.” Vesemir said, nudging Geralt a little bit.

“Right.” He nodded and moved towards Skye. “Come on, I'll show you up to a room you can stay in, while we're here.” He told her, watching her finish her tea and stand up.

Geralt guided Skye through the massive and winding halls of the Keep, up several sets of spiral staircases, until he walked down a long hallway and pulled open one of the many doors. Skye stepped inside the room, finding it was as dark and gloomy as the rest of Kaer Morhen. Pure dark stone, a slit of a window, a small fireplace in the corner, crude table, with a single candle stick, and chair opposite of it, a simple dresser and a double, poster bed; there were throw furs on the floor and the bed. The room was cold, after so long in disuse, so Geralt, out of habit, built a fire in the grate to warm the room up for her.

“I'll be just down the hall, if you need anything.” He told her, once the fire was going.

“Okay.” She nodded at him, biting her lip and standing in the middle of the room.

It felt odd, for both of them, that they wouldn't be sharing a room together or be a few feet from each other as they had been, while camping out. They stood there in an awkward silence for a few minutes, before Geralt excused himself and left the room, going down the hall to the room he regularly occupied while he was at Kaer Morhen, it had been his room since his mother abandoned him at the School, all those years before.

A little while later, there was a soft knock on Skye's door and when she opened it, she found Geralt standing there with a wooden bowl of something steamy and a mug of something else.

“I brought you some dinner.” He said, lifting them a little bit higher.

Skye swore, if she leaned in just right and squinted hard enough, there would be a smile on Geralt's face.

“Thank you.” She said softy, carefully taking the bowl and mug from him, turning them back into her room to set them down on the table, then took the spoon Geralt held out to her.

“It's not much, just some venison stew.” Geralt explained to her, biting the inside of his cheek. “Eskel killed one this morning and so he decided to stew it.” He continued, licking his lips. “He's a really good cook.” He babbled, finding himself incapable of stopping.

“I'm sure that he is.” Skye replied, smirking at Geralt, seeing the confused fluster in his eyes.

“Do-” Geralt cleared his throat. “Do you need anything?” He asked, glancing around the room.

Skye had unpacked after Geralt brought her things up from Roach's saddlebags, her bed was neatly made, she kept the fire in the grate he started going, so the room was nice and toasty. It did have a slight homey feel to it that Geralt liked a lot.

“I don't think so.” She answered, biting her lip and glancing around, everything seemed to be in the place she wanted it to be.

“If you need anything, you know where to find me. Good night.” Geralt mumbled, moving back to the door. “Skye.” He whispered, just loud enough for her to hear him.

Her mouth dropped open as the door closed behind him, surprised to hear him utter her name. “Good night,...Geralt.” She whispered back, slowly sitting down to eat her dinner.

– –

The next morning, Skye tip-toed around the Keep and checked Kaer Morhen out, getting familiar with the layout of where everything was at; all she needed was to get hopelessly lost. Most of the rooms were empty, used as storage, or locked all together. There was zero interest in going outside, a large blizzard had blown in during the night, dumping tons of fresh snow over the grounds.

“Hello, Skye.” A voice echoed into the hall, drawing her towards an open door.

Peeking inside the strange room, Skye saw Vesemir standing in the middle of the room, a sword in his hand. “Vesemir.” She replied, greeting him politely. “Good morning.”

“To you as well.” He smiled, leaning on his sword. “Wandering around, I suppose.”

“Not much else to do.” She chuckled, stepping closer to him.

“True enough.” He laughed, nodding his head and glanced around the room. “I spent most of my time here.”

“Doing what?” She inquired, tilting her head at him.

Vesemir pressed his lips together, his gray brows drawing down over his eyes as he regarded her. “I used to be the combat trainer for the up and coming Witchers of Kaer Morhen. This is one of the rooms I trained them in.” He explained to her, motioning to the walls of different weapons and the nicked and scarred training dummies pushed into one corner.

“So, you spend hours in here, wielding various weapons, beating on whatever and whoever.” Skye summed up, getting his point.

“Have you ever wielded a sword or weapon?” Vesemir asked, sizing her up.

“I know how to use a scythe, when my mother and I had to bring in the harvest at my family farm.” Skye replied, pressing her lips together. “If that counts for anything.”

“Well, you can kill someone with one of them. So, I'll give you points for that.” He chuckled, smiling at her. “Here,” Vesemir turned, walking up to one of the walls of weapons and took down a short sword, bringing it back to her.

“Try this.” He held it out to her, handle first.

Skye hesitated for a moment, but after an encouraging nod from him, she wrapped her hand around the hilt of the sword. It was heavy in her hand, but not too heavy that she couldn't hold it up and wield it with two hands. She looked at Vesemir and lifted a brow at him, waiting for what was next, and blinked, startled, when he raised his own sword.

“Are we going to fight?” She asked, worried.

“Yes.” He nodded, smirking at her. “I'll be gentle with you.” He promised, gold eyes dancing with amusement. “Hold your sword like this.” He instructed her, showing her how to properly hold it.

“Good, very good.” He praised her, nodding his head.

Vesemir gave Skye play by play instructions, moving back and forward with her, their blades barely touching, as he taught her how to block certain blows, to protect her weak points and push him back. He was surprised to find she seemed very natural with a blade, she was an impressively quick learner as well. It also felt good to have someone other than Geralt, Eskel and Lambert to square off with, though Vesemir was considerably more mindful and held back with Skye, knowing he could easily overtake and harm her, if he wasn't careful.

“That was fun.” Skye smiled, wiping the sweat off her brow with the sleeve of her shirt.

“You're a quick learner.” Vesemir complimenting her and nodding his head, impressed. “You'll overtake this poor old man in no time.” He joked, laughing, and dropped down onto a bench against the wall.

“Not a chance.” She laughed back, sitting beside him. “What was Geralt like, when he started training?” She asked, curiously.

Vesemir sighed and rubbed the side of his wrinkled face. “A handful.” He huffed, smiling. “He liked to get into a lot of mischief, him _and_ Eskel, for that matter. They're close in age, and Eskel arrived only a few months before Geralt did, so they bonded that way.” He said, his eyes losing a bit of their focus as he recounted it.

“One of his first lessons, he nearly lopped all his toes off, dropping his sword after I disarmed him.”

Skye laughed out loud, the sound echoing in the stone room. “I can only imagine the anger he must have felt.”

“Actually,” Vesemir frowned, bushy brows knitting together. “It was quite the opposite. He broke out into tears.”

“Geralt?” She frowned back at him, it was hard to picture Geralt crying, for any reason.

“The same.” He nodded at her, meeting her eyes. “It's hard to tell, with the guard and walls, he's put up over the decades. He's had to put them up. But, Geralt is a good man, with an even better heart. If anyone is so lucky to see and touch it.” He told her, softly, with a tone that Skye felt in her own heart.

The vision Skye had of Geralt, formed when they first met and from what her mother had told her about what he had done in Blaviken, slowly started to shift, as Skye got to know Geralt more, as she encountered people that knew the Witcher almost better than Geralt knew himself.

The illusion of the _Butcher_ of Blaviken, was just that, an illusion, that melted away after he told her about what had actually happened. How he had tried his best to stay out of it. But, pressing factors forced his hand, forcing him to make a choice to kill someone that wasn't all that different from himself, seen as a monster and a black spot on the Continent, someone that Geralt had grown to love. It showed Skye that he wasn't entirely the emotionless creature Witchers were made out to be. He showed her that, when he had gone out of his way to give her a birthday present, simply because he knew that's what people did for someone's birthday, because he had been affected by her sadness and wanted to give her something that would cheer her up; unconscionably touching the bracelet on her wrist.

She was starting to realize, as she walked the halls of Kaer Morhen and spoke to Vesemir, that Geralt also understood what it was like to be ripped away from family, to be forced into a situation with strange people, you didn't want to be with, but had no voice in the matter to change it. Geralt wasn't a Butcher, or a monster, or even a _mutant_ , he was a man, changed by the force of others and circumstance. Kaer Morhen had taught him how to be physically strong and how to survive against monsters, then thrust him out into the world, with no safety net, when the human monsters attacked his emotions and tore down his thoughts. Geralt had to teach himself how to build those walls, how to survive those attacks, that his armor and potions couldn't. The result was a man everyone saw as an abomination, so hardened by the years of abuse, it was all he'd ever let anyone see.

Unless, as Vesemir put it, someone was so lucky to see and touch it.

“What are you two doing in here?” Eskel's voice rasped as he appeared in the doorway.

“I was teaching the girl how to wield a sword.” Vesemir replied, looking up at the young Witcher.

Eskel let out a barking laugh. “Do you still have all your fingers and toes?” He asked Skye with a smirk.

“Last I checked.” Skye replied, smirking back at him.

“I like you.” Eskel chuckled, nodding his head at her.

– –

Pretty soon, Skye picked up a routine in Kaer Morhen.

She would get up just after sunrise in the mornings and go down to the kitchens and whip up some breakfast for herself and the three Witchers. She had made them breakfast on her third day there and the boys, namely Eskel, raved about it for the rest of the day. So, she picked up the chore of making them breakfast and dinner, letting them fend for themselves when it came to lunch. After that, she would go up to the training room with Vesemir to do some swordplay and instructions. Where she was getting increasingly better at wielding the weapon, finding her own style, blows and blocks becoming more and more like second nature, and moving quicker, managing to best Vesemir once in a while.

It was one afternoon about a month after she and Geralt arrived, and after her session with Vesemir, that Eskel appeared in the training room and asked Skye, if she would like to take a walk with him around the grounds of Kaer Morhen, seeing that a decent amount of the snow had melted away, making it easier to navigate.

“Sure.” Skye smiled, nodding her head and putting her sword back in its place. “Would you give me a moment to get my cloak?” She asked him.

“Of course, I would loath for you to catch a chill.” He nodded, smiling at her. “I'll meet you by the Keep door.” He said and gave her a low bow.

Skye chuckled at him, shaking her head, then went up to her room and grabbed her cloak, flinging it around her shoulders and clasping it closed, then met Eskel by the main door of the Keep. Smiling at her, Eskel opened the door for her, politely allowing her to step out ahead of him, bowing his head in a gentlemanly gesture.

“How are you liking Kaer Morhen, Skye?” He asked as they started walking around.

“I'm finding it a great deal more comfortable than I thought it would be.” She replied, looking up at the crumbling towers. “I thought for sure, I'd find evil and brain addled monsters.”

Eskel laughed, his shoulders shaking. “Well, you have one out of three right, we do tend to be addled.” He joked, spiritedly.

“Vesemir said, you and Geralt would always get into mischief.” Skye pointed out and looked up at him, curiously.

“Gods, yes!” He laughed again, shaking his head at all the antics he and Geralt had gotten into over the years. “You see that tower, over there?” He asked, pointing out a tower that was still mostly standing compared to the others. “We once stole another Witcher, Aubry, from his bed in the middle of the night, took him to the top of the tower, tied a rope around his ankles and dangled him out the window that used to be at the top of it.”

“Oh gods.” Skye laughed, grinning, as she pictured the poor Witcher hanging upside down from the window.

“He woke up and started shouting and curses, waking the entire place.” Eskel explained, still looking so proud of himself. “Geralt and I got our as—butts.” He quickly corrected himself. “kicked for it. It took a week for both of us to sit down again.” He reminisced, fondly. “Geralt and I also captured a giant forest bumblebee and tied it to a jug, when Vesemir found us rolling the grass, in a fit of laughter, he gave us a good row with a leather strap.”

“You two sound like complete trouble makers.” Skye chuckled, imagining Geralt dangling a fellow Witcher out a window, or laughing in the tall grass that covered the grounds of Kaer Morhen, only to get thrashed with a belt, it made her smirk.

“Still are to a fair point.” Eskel replied, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes. “Oh, Geralt!” He smiled, as Geralt came in through the gate, leading Roach, who was carrying a large buck across her back. “Is that dinner?” He asked, nodding at the large animal.

“It is.” Geralt replied, looking between Skye and Eskel, their faces red and eyes damp from laughing. “What are the pair of you doing out here?” He asked, lifting a brow at them.

“I was giving Skye a tour of the grounds.” Eskel said, smiling at her. “Being you haven't yet.”

“Hm.” Geralt huffed, a quiet growl rumbling in his chest.

“Would you like help with the deer?” Skye asked him.

“No, I can manage.” He replied, shaking his head at her. “I wouldn't want to interrupt your and Eskel's walk.” He said, leading Roach away and back towards the keep.

“He's broody today.” She commented, watching him go.

“No more than usual.” Eskel told her, then turned and showed her the rest of the grounds.

– –

“You're jealous.” Vesemir said, stepping into the kitchen, where Geralt was butchering the buck.

“No, I'm not.” Geralt grunted, glaring at the carcass on the table.

“Oh yes, you are.” the older Witcher chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest. “I've seen how you act when Skye and Eskel are together. Brooding, grumpy and standoffish.” He pointed out to his former pupil.

“Classic jealousy.”

“I'm not jealous of Eskel.” He repeated, angrily skinning the deer.

“Geralt.” Vesemir sighed, lifting a brow at him.

Growling, Geralt forcefully stabbed his bloody knife into the table and turned to Vesemir. “All right, fine. I am jealous of Eskel.” He admitted, begrudgingly. “She laughs at his stupid fucking jokes, she smiles at him, a lot. She hardly ever does those things when it's me.” His angered expression fell with his shoulders.

“She even gave him a hug the other day.” He mumbled under his breath.

“You don't exactly open up to her, like Eskel does, Geralt.” Vesemir was honest with the white-haired Witcher. “You barely utter a word to her, so how is she to laugh at something funny you said, if you never say it to begin with.”

Geralt grumbled at Vesemir, scowling, the closest thing to pouting he'd ever do.

“As for smiling, apparently, you don't look at the girl too often, do you?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“That girl is, damn near, always smiling at you, Geralt. Especially, when she thinks you, or anyone else, isn't looking at her to see it.” Vesemir confessed, he'd caught Skye smiling at Geralt's back and several times, blatantly to his face, many times over the weeks.

Geralt gulped at Vesemir, had he been so blinded by his own jealousy, that he missed Skye smiling at him. Yes, he had been. Every time Skye laughed at one of Eskel's jokes or smiled at him, when he entered a room, or hugged him for some reason, Geralt would abruptly get up and leave the area. Needing to get away from them, before he ended up putting his fist through Eskel's face, for being so brass with her.

“I know, you're afraid of hurting her, like you hurt that Princess.” Vesemir said, slowly. “But, if you're not careful, Geralt, you'll end up hurting her anyway.” He told him, before leaving Geralt to finish the deer.

Geralt sighed, leaning on his hands against the table the deer laid half butchered on, head hanging and eyes squeezed shut, trying to get a handle on himself, to pull himself together, away from the jealousy and the growing fear that he'd fallen in love with Skye.

– –

“Hey, Geralt!” Eskel called out, seeing Geralt making his way up to his room.

“Eskel?” He replied, lifting a brow at him.

“Have you seen Skye sword fight?” Eskel asked, motioning to the training room Skye and Vesemir were sparring in.

“No.” Geralt shook his head, chewing the inside of his lip, he had heard about Vesemir giving Skye sword lessons and that she was apparently very good at it, but hadn't gone to see for himself.

“Come on, check her out.” Eskel tried coaxing him. “She nearly took Vesemir's head off a second ago.” He laughed, grinning.

Feeling the root of his jealousy wiggle its way deeper, Geralt turned and approached the training room, standing in the doorway with Eskel. Looking into the room, he saw Vesemir and Skye in the center of the room, swords raised and trained on the other as they slowly circled each other, sizing the other up and waiting to see who made the first move towards the other one. He noticed Skye was wearing a pair of tight leather pants and a black shirt, the long sleeves pushed up to her elbows. It was her that made the first move, going for Vesemir's unprotected left side, nearly getting the blow in, before he twisted and blocked her blade, rotated his wrist and flicked her sword away from him. Geralt leaned his shoulder against the door frame, crossing his arms over his broad chest and watched Skye move and fight Vesemir, a soft smile on his lips.

Skye and Vesemir sparred for several minutes, before Vesemir was able to break through her blocks and smack the side of her thigh with the flat of his blade. Chuckling, they moved apart and smiled at each other, then looked to the door as Eskel clapped, making Geralt roll his eyes at him, but he smiled at Skye, feeling quiver in his stomach as she smiled back at him.

“I bet I can do a better job than Vesemir.” Eskel suddenly announced.

“I doubt it.” Skye retorted, giving him a smug lift of her brow.

“Oh yeah, you wanna put your money where your mouth is.” He quipped, moving into the room.

“I don't have any money, but I'm all right taking yours.” She told him with a wink.

“It's so on!” Eskel laughed, picking up a sword off the rack.

Snorting, Skye raised her sword, like she'd been taught all those weeks before and slowly started circling with Eskel, who was making stupid faces at her, trying to distract her and making her laugh, so he could slip her up. Vesemir moved to stand beside Geralt at the door, one eye on Skye and Eskel with the other eye on Geralt, whose body was unusually tense, watching Skye spar back and forth with the other Witcher.

“Upset it isn't you, she's sparring?” He asked Geralt, quietly.

“No.” He rasped back. “I'm worried he'll hurt her.” He confessed, his enhanced eyes watching every move the two made.

Skye suddenly pushed forward and flicked her blade at Eskel's, managing to send his blade clattering across the stone floor, too far out of reach for him to recover it. Vesemir and Geralt smirked, impressed and amused she'd managed it, Eskel didn't seem so happy about it, his temper suddenly spiking. Geralt tensed, seeing it and straightened up.

“No!” He barked, alarmed as Eskel threw out his three fingers for an Aard, in his frustration.

Geralt's eyes were wide with alarm, golden orbs darting between Skye and Eskel, before he rushed towards Skye, trying to reach her before the blast of the Sign could harmed her. Skye gasped and threw up her arms, her wrists crossing, just as the blast of Eskel's Aard reached her. Geralt slid to a stop, mouth dropping open as the shockwave was deflected off of Skye's crossed arms, only pushing her back a little bit, and other than that, she was unharmed. The mouths of all three Witchers were on the floor, when they realized what she had just pulled off.

“She just Signed a Heliotrop!” Eskel snapped, in surprise, his anger forgotten. “How the hell did she just Sign a Heliotrop!?”

“How?” Geralt whispered and looked Skye over, then met her eyes, still shocked and concerned.

“I don't even know, what a _Heliotrop_ is...” Skye replied, looking back at him, startled.

“It's the thing you just did, by crossing your arms.” Eskel said, shaking his head at her.

“It's what I suspected.” Vesemir spoke up, pulling his jaw up off the floor.

“Suspected _what_?” Geralt snapped, looking over at him.

“She has Elven blood.”

“That's not possible.” Skye shook her head at him. “My mother hates Elves and my father is assuredly not one either.”

“You could be Quarter-Elf.” Vesemir pointed out.

Vesemir had a strange inkling that Skye wasn't completely Human, he just wasn't sure if it was Elven blood or a Mutation. But, after seeing her use a Heliotrop with such ease and effectiveness, especially being she'd never done one before, was aware she _could_ do one or even knew how to do it, told the old Witcher what he needed to know. Only someone with some measure of Elven blood would have been able to pull off what Skye had just done.

“Quarter-Elves, and even some Half-Elves are capable of passing themselves off as normal, everyday Humans. So, you're at least Quarter-Elf.” He explained to her.

Skye looked between the three of them, a tremble making her lithe body vibrate. Tears sprang up in her minty-green eyes and her bottom lip wobbled, before she burst out of the room and blindly ran down the hall, needing to get away, far away.

Geralt turned on Eskel, jaw tight and lips pressed into a thin and angry line, before driving his fist into the other Witcher's stomach, as hard as he could, sending Eskel stumbling backwards into a wall of axes and maces. Eskel took several wheezy breaths, before he was able to speak again.

“Wh-wh-what wa-as th-that for!?” He demanded, arm pressed against his throbbing abdomen.

“For nearly killing her with your Aard!” Geralt hissed, starting towards him again, but was stopped by Vesemir's hand on his chest.

“She blocked it!”

“You didn't know she could block it, and you still fucking did it!” He growled low in his throat, before pushing away from Vesemir and going after her.

Geralt went to her room first, but found it empty, and started searching the rest of the Keep, before venturing outside to the grounds. He searched almost all of the crumbling towers and out buildings before he found her. He stopped in the doorway of the stables, smiling softly as she pet Roach in her stall.

“She's always great company, when you're feeling down.” He said softly, not wishing to startle her. “Especially, since she doesn't tend to talk back.” He added, with a quiet chuckle.

“What do you want?” Skye sniffled, wiping her hot and wet cheek on the shoulder of her shirt.

Geralt sighed softly, pushing off the frame of the door and approached her, gently resting his hand on Roach's nose, smiling at the mare's greeting neigh. “I came to see if you were all right.” He told her, petting Roach.

Taking a deep breath, Skye let it out with a sigh, she didn't know if she was all right. She was confused and scared, and angry. How could she have Elven blood in her, wouldn't she have known by now. Wouldn't her mother have told her that she did. Did her mother even _know_ that she had Elven blood. Was it her mother that had the Elven blood or was it her father that did. She had so many questions.

“I don't understand.” She sniffled, pressing her lips together. “How can you have Elven blood, of any amount, and _not_ know?” She asked and looked up at Geralt, like he had the answer.

Geralt wished he did have the answer for her, but he didn't.

“I don't know.” He replied instead. “With the persecution of Elves after the uprising, people became loath to admit they were the offspring of Elves. Afraid of what it would mean if people did find out.”

“Great, what's that make me?” She huffed, more to herself than Geralt, fresh tears dripping down her cheeks.

Biting his lip, Geralt reached out and rested his hand on her elbow, gently squeezing it. “It makes you, who you've always been, Skye.” He told her, with a soft sincerity. “Just because you have Elven blood, doesn't mean you're something else, other than yourself.”

“Don't let anyone, ever, tell or convince you otherwise.” He added, giving her arm another squeeze and gently pulled her in against him, carefully folding her into his arms.

Skye paused for a moment, surprised by Geralt's words and gesture, but lightly wrapped her arms around his waist, her forehead resting against his chest as they embraced. Both of them relaxed, Geralt gently tipping his head down to nose her hair, taking in the light scent of the soap she used to wash it, the pleasing warmth of her body resting against his. Skye took a deep breath, taking in the scent of Geralt's warm body, a faint trace of leather from his armor, the tang of Roach, a sweet, woody and smoky aroma from the burning wood fire in his room, and something else, beneath all of it, that was uniquely Geralt.

She found it alluring and comforting all at the same time.

“I promised to take you home.” Geralt whispered into her hair, not ready to pull away from her just yet. “We'll go back, after the first thaw, and get the answers you want and need.” He promised her, hugging his arms around her a little bit more as he felt her shiver.

“I'd like that.” Skye whispered back, softly, resting her cheek against Geralt's chest and closed her eyes.

“Good.” He smiled, and felt the germinating seed in his belly take a firm hold of him and grow a little bit more, into a delicate sprout. “Come, let's get you back inside, before you get ill.” He told her, slowly releasing her from his arms. “I'll even help you make dinner.” He smirked, slyly.

“That'll be the day.” She chuckled, teasingly.

“Hey, I did kill the buck you're using for dinner tonight.” He replied, lowering his head and lifting a brow at her, teasing her back.

“Oh, yes. I can see it going to your head now.” She rolled her eyes, playfully, at him. “Come along, Geralt, before your head gets any bigger and you can't get it through the doorways.” She called over her shoulder, heading out of the stables and back inside the Keep.

Geralt stood there a moment, smiling after her, and suddenly felt a profound happiness creep into him. He snapped out of it though, when Skye stopped and turned around to him, realizing he wasn't following her. He chuckled to himself and started forward to join her, feeling like nothing could ruin what was starting to really bud between them.


	4. IV

Their time in Kaer Morhen was coming to an end, there was only a month left before the first thaw of Spring and the path was clear enough for Geralt and Skye to make it back down the mountain and trace their steps back to Dorian in Temeria.

Skye was anxious about returning home to face her parents and find out the truth about her ancestry, she didn't know how to feel about the prospect of finding out she was a Quarter-Elf, but she knew Geralt's words in Roach's stable were right; no matter the outcome, she would still be herself.

“Morning, Geralt.” Skye smiled as he entered the dining hall for breakfast.

“Morning.” He smiled back at her, sitting across from her at the table, his steaming plate of breakfast already waiting for him. “Did you sleep well?” He asked, digging into his food.

“I did, and you?” She replied, picking up her own fork.

“I did.” He answered, nodding and giving her a soft smirk. “Are you sparring with Vesemir today?” He asked, washing his bite of food down with some ale.

“I am, right after I finish here.” Skye nodded, focused on finishing her breakfast so she wasn't late; Vesemir was a stickler for promptness.

Geralt nodded his head back and a comfortable silence fell over them as they finished eating, then went up to the training room with her. Skye frowned, as she stepped into the room and didn't see Vesemir there waiting for her, like he had been everyday for the last two months. Geralt smirked and grabbed a sword off the wall and faced her.

“You'll be having a different teacher today.” He chuckled, seeing her surprise.

“Oh, this should be good!” Skye laughed, grabbing her own sword. “I beat Eskel's butt four times already and I've kicked Vesemir's just as much. You think you can do any better, Geralt?”

“Oh, I assure you, I can.” He grinned, spinning the sword in his hand. “I'm not as old as Vesemir or as hot headed as Eskel can be.” He told her, stepping into the middle of the room. “Unless, you're scared?”

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?” Skye teased back, moving to join him.

“Not really.” He shook his head, planting his feet. “I like that fiery nature of yours, though.” He smirked and raised his sword.

“Get ready for a fire storm then, Witcher.”

Geralt chuckled at her and stepped forward, swinging his sword in a tall arch and down, forcing Skye to step back and twist to the side to dodge it. She flared her eyes at him, twisted her sword and struck back at him, Geralt dropped his blade down, half dropping to a knee and blocked her blade from connecting with his leg. Not pausing, Skye yanked her sword back up, righted it in her hands and swiftly smacked his exposed shoulder. Geralt laughed, then swiped his thick arm out, knocking her feet out from under her.

“I know, he taught you to stand on those toes.” He commented, straightening up and extending his hand out to her.

Growling, Skye took his hand and let him pull her up back onto her feet. As soon as she was back on her feet, she hooked one of her feet around his ankle, pulled, and drove her shoulder into his chest, sending him to the ground.

“He did.” She grinned, proud of herself. “He also taught me that!” She giggled at him. “So, two for me and one for you.”

“Are you going to help me up?”

“No!” She laughed, backing away from him. “Took all my body weight to get you down there to start with.” She blushed, waiting for his next move.

“Smart girl.” He teased her, getting up.

They sized each other up and started again, blocking, circling and trying to trip the other up, the more they went at each other, the quicker they moved, finding their rhythm together. Skye started noting Geralt's proclivity of twisting his thick body to put more force behind his swings and sword movements. It amazed her that someone Geralt's size was so agile and fluid in his movements, they reminded her of a dancer or a ballerina, which made her snort.

“What's so funny?” Geralt panted, tilting his head at her, sweat on his brow.

“No, you'll cut my head off, if I tell you.” Skye shook her head, similarly out of breath and sweaty. “It's not very—Witchery.” She explained, slowly losing herself to a fit of giggles at the image of Geralt in a tutu.

“Come on, out with it, mouse.” He felt himself grinning at her, a giggle bubbling in his own belly.

“I'm not a mouse.” She replied, tears in her eyes from laughing so hard.

“You sound like a mouse, when you giggle, and you're the size of one.” Geralt informed her, licking his lips.

The sound of their laughter rang out in the training room, echoing out the open doorway and into the hall. The sound caught the attention of Vesemir as he was coming down from his private rooms and followed it to the open training room door. Peeking around the corner, Vesemir cracked a smile seeing Skye and Geralt standing in the middle of the training mat, their sweaty faces, red with exertion and laughter, their shoulders shaking as they continued to laugh at, and with, each other. It warmed the older Witcher's heart to see the two of them finally loosen up with each other, letting down guards, bias and protective walls, allowing their full personalities free.

“You reminded me of a sword wielding ballerina, when you fight.” Skye finally managed to laugh out. “All you need is a tutu and you'll be set.” She leaned on her sword as she laughed even harder, picturing Geralt in all his normal Witcher gear and a frilly pink tutu around his waist, in the heat of some dire battle with a fearsome monster of yore.

Geralt let out a loud laugh, getting the same basic image Skye had floating around her head. “People will undoubtedly fear me even more with a tutu on.”

“And be jealous of your fashion sense.” She chuckled, shaking her head. “Shall we finish, Geralt of Tutus?” She asked, using the cuff of her sleeve to dab at her eyes.

“We shall.” He nodded, composing himself.

Taking a couple deep breaths, Skye composed herself as well and brought her focus back on Geralt, who had his gold eyes narrowed and trained on her. She shifted and planted her feet, gripping the hilt of her sword in both hands, her blade at an angle and the tip pointed at Geralt, taking note of every twitch and shift of his shoulders, arms, hips and feet, trying to take in all the information she could, so she could anticipate his eventual move. Skye's back tensed slightly as Geralt tilted his hips at an angle and bent at the knees, waiting for the attack that she knew was coming. Despite facing him and her eyes never leaving his, Geralt moved quite suddenly, he took two long strides towards her, surprising her. Skye just managed to lift her sword to block one of Geralt's blows, stumbling away from him, trying to give him a wide berth to recover herself and get back on the offensive.

But, Geralt kept coming at her, not letting up on her, just moving closer and closer to her, and kept the blows coming. One of his blows disarmed Skye, sending her blade skidding across the floor and against the wall, making her gasp. Skye took a step away from Geralt, tripping over the edge of the mat. Snapping forward, Geralt wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her against him, saving her from falling flat on her butt.

“Wh-”

Eskel's voice started behind Vesemir, who spun around and slapped a hand over his mouth, giving him a look that screamed _'shut it'_! Then, turned back towards Skye and Geralt.

Skye looked up at Geralt, eyes wide, as he looked down at her, both of their hearts thundering in their chests. Blinking once, Geralt lowered his head a hesitant inch closer to hers, before going for it and kissing her, full on the lips. Skye took a sharp breath through her nose, resting her hands on Geralt's broad shoulders, utterly caught off guard by his kiss, the warmth of his lips against hers, holding her firmly against his solid body. Both of their eyes closed, melting into each other, Skye nudging against him, returning the kiss and wrapped an arm around his neck. Vesemir and Eskel chuckled, rolling their eyes at the two, thinking it was about time they kissed. Turning, Vesemir dragged Eskel down the hall, giving the two love birds space and privacy.

“Vesemir didn't show me that move.” Skye said, pulling her head away from Geralt, cheeks warm.

“I hope not.” Geralt whispered back, licking his lips and the lingering taste of hers. “I've wanted to kiss you for a few days now.” He admitted, his cheeks warming a bit more.

“Was this your attempt to kiss me, then?” Skye smirked at him.

“No, actually, I didn't plan on kissing you.” He replied, shyly. “It just sorta...happened.”

Skye nodded her head at him, brushing her hair back behind her ear. “When do you.. _we_..plan on leaving after the first thaw?” She asked, after they stood there quietly for a moment.

Geralt frowned at her, brows low over his eyes as he regarded her. “The next day or two afterwards.” He told her, tilting his head. “Most of the snow should be melted away, making the trek down to the main path and through the pass easier than it was, while we were coming up.” He explained to her, his arm dropping from around her waist and took a step back from her.

“You must be antsy to get back to your farm.”

“Well, my parents' farm holds a lot of answers to questions I currently have.” She replied, feeling the air around them shift and change, like their kiss never happened. “What are we doing after that?” She asked, trying to get that feeling back.

“We'll see, when we get there.” Geralt told her, moving away from Skye and putting back the sword he had taken for their sparring session, then quietly left the room.

Leaving Skye standing there, mourning for the loss of the sporadic moment that led to their kiss.

– –

“You've earned this.” Vesemir said, on Skye's last sparring session with him, taking her short sword from her and putting it in a leather sheath, he had actually made himself. “So, it's only right, that it goes with you, Skye.” He told her, holding it out to her.

“Are you sure?” Skye asked, slowly taking it from him.

“You are one of the best female swordsmen I have ever seen.” He told her with a deep conviction and nod. “Takes someone with great skill to beat not only an old man, but two of the top Witchers in the Continent, and you've done those three things, many times over again.”

Skye smiled at him, securing the sword belt around her waist and the bottom strap to her thigh, feeling the comfortable weight on her side. “Thank you, Vesemir.” She said, throwing her arms around his shoulders and giving him a hug. “For everything. You've been a massive help to my sanity, more than you realize.” She whispered into his ear.

“And you, mine.” Vesemir smiled, hugging her back. “You've been such a spot of sunshine in this gloomy hole in the mountain.”

“Thanks.” Skye chuckled, biting her lip and feeling a bit emotional.

The old Witcher had become very important to Skye over the last three months at Kaer Morhen, he had given her something to look forward to, when she got up in the mornings, something to practice on her own time and focus on. Instead of wandering around the grounds of the old stronghold, twiddling her thumbs and losing her mind, trapped with him, Geralt and Eskel, day in and day out.

Not only that, but Vesemir, like he had with Geralt and Eskel, had become a father figure to Skye, though he was closer to being her great-grandfather several times over again. Nonetheless, he was more a father figure than Tarzad, for obvious reasons, and it was something Skye had desperately been missing in her life. Vesemir had become as fond, and protective, of Skye as he had with Geralt and Eskel, like a daughter he didn't expect he wanted, but was more than happy and proud to discover.

“You're more than welcome, Skye.” He smiled, hugging her back.

The next day, packed and ready to go, Geralt and Skye said good-bye to Vesemir and Eskel, who planned on staying another day, before setting out on the Path himself.

“I'll miss you.” Skye lamented, hugging Vesemir for the hundredth time.

“Oh, nonsense.” Vesemir huffed, shaking his head at her. “You'll be out of here a week and be glad you don't have to see my ol' worn face until next winter.”

“You're getting soft, old man.” She teased him, giggling.

“Hey, what about me!” Eskel faked a pout, making her laugh harder.

“Oh, I suppose, you too.” Skye sighed, dramatically, moving around Vesemir to give the younger Witcher a hug as well. “You behave, or I'll hit _you_ with an Aard next time.”

“Oh good god, Geralt, don't teach this thing how to Aard!” He said with a dramatic gasp and looked to Geralt as he fussed over Roach's saddle. “She'll be the death of us all.”

“Oh, shut it!” She laughed, punching him in the chest.

“Gods, help! She's attacking me!” He tried to sound frightened, but only fell to pieces with a fit of laughter. “I'll miss you, Skye. You're as good a partner in crime, as Geralt.”

“The Continent help us!” Vesemir laughed, shaking his head. “You'll take care of her, Geralt.” He added, narrowing his eyes at the white-haired Witcher.

“Of course, I will.” Geralt frowned back at him. “I got her here in one piece, didn't I?”

“He did.” Skye smiled at him, sweetly.

Geralt met her eyes for a moment, then turned back to Roach. Ever since their kiss, he'd been hot and cold in turns with her, one moment he would easily laugh and smile at something she said or had done, then in another moment, sometimes a split second later, he would close her out again and go so quiet, it was as if he no longer had a mouth. Vesemir assured her he was just processing an army of things and he would come back around to her again, if she was just patient. So, Skye did just that, she didn't push him to answer or follow her, letting Geralt come to her on his own, while still trying to show him she was reaching for him.

At least, she hoped she was showing that and he was seeing and feeling it.

Good-byes said once more, Geralt boosted Skye up into Roach's saddle behind him, no longer loath to touch and be so close to him. She wrapped one arm around his waist as he directed Roach towards the portcullis of Kaer Morhen, and twisted her upper body back to wave at Vesemir and Eskel, before they disappeared around the bend.

“So, where to first, Geralt?” Skye asked, twisting back to face him and wrapped her other arm around his waist. “Back through High Rock?” She inquired, resting her chin on his shoulder to see the side of his face.

“No.” He shook his head, frowning and stone faced. “We're going all the way to Flotsam, before we stop in a town.” He told her, gripping Roach's reins tighter.

“That's almost a week and a half journey, don't you worry we'll run out of supplies by then?” She asked, concerned.

“No, we can get water from the streams we'll pass and I can hunt, if we run out of food.” He said, his voice toneless.

Skye could feel how stiff Geralt was as she hugged herself against his back and felt a sharp and icy spike going through her gut. Maybe, he was just trying to get to Dorian as quickly as possible, so they could get their answers and be on their way, to wherever Geralt wanted to start on his new year of Witchering. But, a teeny voice in the lurking darkness of her mind, was paranoid that Geralt was up to something much more complicated, that threatened to be painful.

“Okay.” She whispered, resting back and loosening her arms around his waist.

Geralt rolled his eyes shut, biting his lip and pushing his jaw out, he wasn't trying to be cold or distant, least of all, hurtful. But, the sprout in his gut had deeply rooted itself into him and he was scared to let Skye in, afraid something would happen and the horror with Renfri would happen all over again, and his attachment to Skye was stronger and more tangled than it was with Renfri. Geralt and Renfri had only known each other for a few days, when he found himself in love with her, it was such a whirlwind, that Geralt was still confused and hurt by it, on various points. One being the seeping paranoia that Stregobor was right, that Renfri had gotten into his head and convinced him he felt all those things. With Skye, He didn't start feeling the tingle until almost two weeks into knowing her, finding her a nuisance and troublesome beforehand, and even then, it took him almost two months locked in Kaer Morhen with her, and Vesemir's mercilessly pointing out the obvious to the Witcher, to admit he did indeed love her, hopelessly so, and Skye couldn't play mind games like Renfri had.

Vesemir had also been right, when he said that if he wasn't careful, he'd end up hurting Skye anyway. His old mentor had recently added on to that point, stating that if he did end up hurting Skye bad enough, he'd run him through with his own sword. Sighing, Geralt relaxed, dropping his head forward, he just couldn't win, could he. He didn't need someone needing him, much less needing them himself. Things like that, always went sideways and back fired.

“Have I done something wrong?” Skye asked that night, when Geralt all but ignored her attempts at conversation.

Geralt sighed again and shook his head at her. “No, Skye. You haven't, I'm just tired.” He told her, quietly, which wasn't a complete lie.

“Can I help?” She asked, slowly, biting the inside of her lip.

“I don't think so.” He said, poking at their camp fire, pushing a half burned log deeper into the pile.

Frowning at him, Skye laid down on her blankets and covered up, watching Geralt through the dancing flames, his eyes looked like they were melting in the matching fire light. It's what she dreamed up, once she drifted off, Geralt's amber-gold eyes, melting down his cheeks as they kissed, slow and sweet, his hands pressing all over her body, through her clothing, igniting fireworks in her nerve endings as his palms glided over them. It almost felt real and she was disappointed to wake the next morning on the cold hard ground, alone and untouched.

– –

Flotsam came into view as Geralt and Skye stepped off the ferry that took them across the Pontar River, almost three days earlier than when they left it for Kaer Morhen, the melted snow and warmer weather making the traveling slightly easier on them and Roach. But, Skye still couldn't help the nagging feeling that Geralt was purposely rushing them more than usual, but kept it to herself. They stayed in Flotsam long enough to replenish some supplies, have an early lunch, then moved on again, passing through Biały Most in the failing light of the afternoon, before camping by the bank of the Ismena river that flowed between Biały Most and Dorndal.

The closer to Dorian and Skye's family's farm, the more antsy she got and the quieter Geralt became, it was almost as if they had absorbed the energy and adopted the feelings towards each other they had when they first set out.

“We'll be in Dorian in the next two or three days.” Geralt told her, slowly turning the spit he had constructed over the fire, a hunk of meat skewered on it.

Skye nodded and sighed, drawing in the dirt at her feet with a small twig, she hadn't been in the mood to talk for the last day, finding little point, with Geralt speaking even less. The air between them was tense and charged with their brooding, unaddressed thoughts and feelings, and concern of what they would learn and find, once they did get back to Nica and Tarzad's farm.

– –

“Geralt?” Skye called, laying in the bed of the inn they had gotten for their last night on the road before reaching the farm in the late morning of the next day.

“Hm.” Geralt hummed back, stretched out on his blankets on the floor, as usual, when they shared a room.

Skye bit her lips, trying to collect the courage she had a moment ago back up, clearing her throat. “Would you--” She bit and cleared her throat again. “Would you— _lay_ —with me?” She asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

There was a long silence in the room, before the shuffle of Geralt throwing back his blankets and the squeak of the floorboards as he stood up. He stood at the side of the bed for a moment, his eyes on Skye for a long moment, before turning to sit down on the bed's edge and slowly laid down on his back beside her. Skye sat up, getting a quick glance from Geralt, as she untucked herself from her blankets and used one to cover him up, in spite of it finally being Spring, the air was still cold. After covering him up, Skye laid back down beside him, both of them staring up at the ceiling in an awkward silence.

“Thank you.” She mumbled, unable to take the quiet any longer.

“Are you all right?” Geralt squeezed out, heart thundering.

“Just cold.” Skye whispered back, curling her cold toes under her blanket.

Blinking a few times, Geralt carefully rolled onto his side to face her and met her sideways glance, then slowly draped his arm over her waist and pulled her side into his chest. The warmth of his body blanketing her and turning in his embrace, Skye snuggled herself into his chest, tucking one arm between them and resting her other one over his side, lifting her head as Geralt tucked his other arm under it, pillowing her head with his thick bicep.

“Better?” He rasped, his strong fingers rubbing away the goosebumps rippled down her back.

“Mmhmm.” Skye nodded, eyes shutting heavily, the scent and warmth of Geralt's body lulling her to sleep, as was the safety she felt being wrapped up in his arms.

Geralt hugged Skye against him and rested his chin on top of her head, melting into her and the mattress. He hadn't slept so well in years, it was so deep and peaceful. He didn't remember the dream he had, which was a relieving change, since a large percentage of his dreams were of the monsters he had killed over his life as a Witcher. No Kikimoras swiping at him with countless legs. No Manticores trying to sting him or crush him with their lion-like jaws. No deafening screeches of a Wraith or blinding screams of a Bruxa. Just floating in quiet and peaceful darkness, wrapped around him like a warm blanket, or in Geralt's case, wrapped up in the warmth of Skye's body.

“Are you ready?” Geralt asked, glancing at Skye over his shoulder as they neared her family farm on Roach, later the next morning.

“As I'll ever be.” Skye replied, hugging her arms around his chest even tighter.

They came into the clearing of the farm yard, which looked almost exactly as it had,when they left it, over three months before. There were a few changes to the farm, several of the animal pens that had been in disrepair over Skye's life had been replaced and rebuilt, there was also a porch swing now and the broken barn door had been fixed.

“Seems my father has been busy.” Skye commented, sliding off the back of Roach, her boots squelching in the mud and muck.

“Seems like it.” Geralt replied, getting down as well, panning his eyes around the yard for any sign of her parents.

“Mama!” Skye yelled out, looking around as she walked towards the house. “Hush, Nillie.” She snapped at the braying donkey.

The door to the small cottage flew open and Nica came running out, tears already streaming down her cheeks, when she reached Skye, throwing her arms around her neck and squeezing her against her body, sobbing into Skye's hair.

“My sweet baby!” She wept, overjoyed. “I never expected to see you again, so soon. Is everything well?” She asked, holding Skye at arm's length.

“Everything is fine, Mama.” Skye assured her, wiping her eyes.

“Has the Witcher been good to you? He hasn't hurt you, has he?” She fussed over her.

“Geralt is very good to me, mama.” She answered, smiling over at Geralt, who remained standing by Roach. “He's a perfect gentleman.”

“Ger—the Butch--”

“He's not a Butcher, mama.” Skye corrected her. “That is greatly more complicated than you can understand. Where's father?” She asked, quickly changing the subject.

“He's gone to the market. Mona gave birth to litter of piglets last week and he's gone to sell some of them.” Nica explained, composing herself. “Why have you come home so soon?”

Skye bit her lip and looked away from her mother.

“You're not--” Nica lowered her voice. “Pregnant, are you?”

“Witchers can't have children, besides Geralt and I have never been _intimate_.” Skye shook her head, cheeks warm with embarrassment. “We need to speak to you about something, that we perhaps should go inside to discuss.”

Nica looked Skye over and over at Geralt, mouth pressed in a thin line. “Yes, of course.” She nodded, looking back down at Skye. “I'll put the kettle on.” She said, giving Skye another hug, before going back inside.

“Come on, Geralt.” Skye called over to him, motioning inside with her head. “She's putting the kettle on.”

“Are you sure you want me in there, when you ask?” He asked, lifting a brow at the open door.

“Yes.” She nodded, she would feel a million times more comfortable, if Geralt was there with her.

Nodding back, Geralt followed Skye into the cottage, dimly lit by tallow candles and the fireplace. It was furnished with a mismatch of furniture, threadbare rugs and drapes, but had a warm and homey feel to it. Skye helped her mother prepare the tea, before sitting down with her and Geralt at the dining table.

“So, what is it you've come to talk about?”

Skye took a deep breath and a fortifying gulp of tea, before answering her mother. “Are you aware that I have Elven blood?” She asked, wanting to get to the heart of the matter and not dally around it.

Nica's back went stiff and her eyes flared, startled. “Whatever gave you that idea?” She demanded, then looked to Geralt, eyes narrowing. “Did you put this in her head?”

“No, he didn't.” Skye answered for him, rubbing her sweaty palms on her legs. “Geralt and I went to Kaer Morhen after we left here, where he, and a few others, spend their Winters.” She started to explain. “While there, another Witcher, Vesemir, started teaching me how to use a sword.”

“What!?”

“You heard me.” Skye sighed, cupping her hands around her cup. “It was during that, that I learned, purely by chance and accident, I'm able to use Signs, namely, a Heliotrop.”

“Only someone with a certain Mutation or Elven blood can do Signs.” Geralt said, softly.

“Skye does _not_ have a mutation, unlike you.” Nica hissed.

“Mother!” Skye barked, slapping her palm down on the table top. “He isn't saying I have a Mutation. We know I do not, which only leaves the latter explanation.”

The anger went out of Nica like helium out of a balloon, and she stared down at her untouched tea. “It's true.” She muttered, not raising her head. “You _do_ have Elven blood in you.”

“Why didn't you never tell me?” Skye sighed, heartbroken, and slightly betrayed.

“I was ashamed of it.” Nica replied, lifting her head and meeting Skye's eyes. “I was afraid that if it was known, that it would only cause endless trouble and hardship on you. After the Great Cleansing and the persecution that anyone of Elven blood endured, I was afraid of it's danger to your future. So, I kept it a secret, I'm the only one that knows of it, and I never dreamed that you would find out.”

“That's why I claimed Tarzad was your father, that way your blood could never be—“

“Wait, wait, wait!” Skye cut her off with a wave of her hand, a boulder sized lump in her throat. “ _Claimed_ he was my father?”

Nica nodded, her body drooping under the weight of the secret she had carried with her for the last twenty-one years. “Tarzad isn't your biological father.”

Skye's mouth dropped to the table, shocked. “What?” She squeaked out, tears welling up in her eyes and head spinning.

“Your—Tarzad—had been gone a year after joining the Temerian army, I became lonely, living here alone and isolated. I never expected or looked for comfort, but one day, who I originally thought was a man, came to the farm and asked for a hand out. So, I brought him in and shared some of my food with him. He returned several times over the following weeks and...we grew very close. “ She explained, ringing the tip of her finger around the lip of her tea cup. “One thing led to another and we became lovers. It was after our first intimacy, that I discovered that he was an Elf. But, I didn't care, I loved him. We were together several times, when Tarzad returned for a short time and he stayed away.”

“Tarzad resumed our marriage in his short hiatus, and I behaved as if nothing happened. When he left again, your real father saw me a few more times, before disappearing himself. It was not long after that, I learned I was pregnant with you.”

“How can you be sure that Tarzad isn't my real father?” Skye asked, desperate.

“Because, we were never intimate, when Tarzad was here.” She replied, biting her lip. “He has a certain—mechanical—issue, that makes it impossible to do so. Enos did not have such an issue, so he is the only one of them that it could be your father.”

Skye rested her elbows on the table and pressed her hands to her face, struggling to believe what her mother was telling her. She wasn't Quarter-Elf, like they had believed she was, she was Half-Elf, taking after her mother in appearance, which allowed Nica to pass Skye off as a Human, to lie to her, Tarzad and everyone else in Skye's life.

“Does Tarzad know?” Geralt asked, frowning at Skye and gently resting his hand on her knee, under the table.

“No.” Nica shook her head, looking pathetically at her daughter. “I never intended anyone to find out about Enos and myself.”

“Well, that seems to be out of the bag, doesn't it.” A voice called. “ _Wife_.” Tarzad stepped out of the hall and into the kitchen.

“Tarry!” Nica gasped, jumping to her feet in surprise. “I can explain--”

Tarzad cut her off with a wave of his hand. “I heard all of it, so there's no explanation needed, Nica.” He told her, then looked down at Skye, who hadn't moved. “It doesn't matter either.” He added, softer. “I've claimed Skye as my own, and I stand by my word.”

Skye lifted her head, her and her mother blinking at each other, they had expected a fire storm of Tarzad tearing the house down in the fit of anger of finding out he had been lied to about Skye's parentage and his wife cheating on him with an Elf. Everyone, including Geralt, looked at the old Soldier with surprise.

“Really?” Nica gulped, stunned.

“Really.” Tarzad nodded, softly. “I could never give you a child of our own, one that you deserve. So, if this is how it's to be, then so be it.” He told her, resting his hand on Skye's shoulder. “You will always be my daughter, Skye. No matter what.”

Skye rested her hand on his and smiled softly at him, touched by his words, and nodding her head, unable to find her voice.

With the truth out on Skye being Half-Elf, things shifted between the three of them. Her mother no longer felt swallowed and consumed by the dark and looming secret over her head, Tarzad seemed freed by the revelation, having felt the strain. Skye felt freed by it as well and looked forward to leaving with Geralt the next day, going on their way across the Continent and seeing him slay monsters. They stayed the night on the farm, Geralt opting to camp out like he had the last time, and Skye stayed in her old room. The real issue didn't come until the next morning, when Skye woke and went out to Geralt's camp. But, instead of finding him and Roach, she found a dead campfire and her sheathed sword, with a note tucked inside of it, resting against a tree. Frowning, she slipped the note out of the scabbard and read the scrolling sentences.

_'Skye,  
I know you're going to be upset with me, when you finish reading this, but I've done it for your own good. Even though, Tarzad has claimed you as his daughter, by blood, you are not. Which, causes the Law of Surprise I took from him in payment of saving his life, null and void. So, you are free of me and the obligation to continue on with me as I travel the Continent as I do my trade as a Witcher. I hope you understand why I've parted with you in this way and can forgive me, someday. ~ Geralt.'_

Skye blinked rapidly, her eyes burning and blinded by tears. “Geralt!” She cried out, turning in a circle. “This sick joke isn't funny! Come out, you little shit!”

But, the only sound was the chirping of the early morning birds and the leafy rustle of squirrels foraging for food. Anguished, Skye crumpled the note in her hands and screamed at the top of her lungs, hot tears dripping down her face. Nica and Tarzad came running, hearing her scream in the house, and found her on her knees, sobbing and rocking.

“Skye, what's happened?” Nica asked, dropping to her knees and cupping Skye's face in her hands.

She blubbered and held out the crumpled note that Tarzad took from her and read aloud. “He's left.” She trembled.

“This is good, isn't it?” Tarzad asked, frowning down at her.

“Oh.” Nice whispered softly, seeing it now.

“Oh?” Tarzad looked to his wife.

“You're in love with the Witcher, aren't you?” She asked Skye, softly, stroking Skye's raven hair off her flushed and wet face. “Oh, Skye.” Nica sighed, hugging her against her breast and soothing her hand over her back. “First love is always that hardest, especially with someone like a Witcher, they can't feel or love like we do, my darling girl.”

“I thought he had, mama.” Skye sobbed into her chest, hugging her shaking arms around her mother's waist. “I thought he had.”

– –

Geralt made it to Anchor by mid-morning, having left Skye's family farm just after midnight, once he knew the little family was sound asleep. He felt conflicted and guilty for up and leaving her like he had, but he had done it for her own good, or at least that's what Geralt repeatedly told himself. The life on the road, being a nomad for nine months of the year, running into one dangerous situation after another, wasn't suited for someone like Skye, who had lived a mostly sheltered life on a farm in a major city.

Even though she had fared well on their long and grueling journey up to Kaer Morhen, they hadn't run into any of the trouble Geralt was accustomed to running into the rest of the year. He feared that while he was away dealing with some monster or another, leaving her behind at the nearest town, that some of the townspeople would turn on her for keeping him company or treat her as if he had taken her hostage. A young and beautiful girl with the likes of an emotionless and evil Witcher, wouldn't settle or bode well with people, whether they knew she was half-elf or not.

“She's safer there.” He said out loud to Roach, who tossed her head. “Don't judge me!” He snapped, frowning at the mare. “You know what it's like on the road!”

Roach snorted and shook her head at him.

“Fine, I could have told her to her face, but you know as well as I do, how stubborn she is. The first sight of what direction we were going in, she'd follow.” He continued to argue, feeling the throb in his chest. “I am a Witcher, I don't feel and I sure as fuck don't fall in love.”

Roach stopped dead in the middle of the road.

“Oh, come on.” He growled at her, trying to nudge her forward again. “Roach, stop being so stubborn!” He hissed, kicking her sides, but the mare refused to budge. “Oh all right!” Geralt roared, dropping her reins and swinging one leg over the other side of the saddle to slip down off Roach's back. “I love her! Is that what you want to hear?”

“I _love_ Skye.”

Roach tapped a hoof on the ground, tossing her head and flaring her lips. Rolling his eyes, Geralt gathered her reins and continued on foot, grumbling under his breath the whole way. He stopped in Anchor overnight, before continuing on, trying to put as much space between himself and Skye that he could, more to prevent himself from turning back for her, than to try and dissuade her, in case she tried following after him, that's if she even managed to find out which way he had gone.

– –

Which is exactly what Skye had done. After calming herself down and collecting her bearings, Skye took up the sword Vesemir had given her and decided to go after the Witcher, not caring how long it took her to find him again.

“Skye, wait!” Tarzad called after her as she started towards town.

“You're not changing my mind. Mama has already tried and failed.” Skye called back over her shoulder.

“I'm not going to stop you, child.” Tarzad told her, grabbing the back of her elbow and pulled her to a stop. “But, you can't follow the Witcher on foot, when he has a horse. You'll never catch up to him, come with me.”

Sighing, Skye followed after him and into the barn. Tarzad pulled one of the new horses he bought out of a stall and tossed a saddle over it's back. He had just finished saddling the shiny black horse, when Nica came into the barn, carrying a pack with her.

“What's going on here?” Skye asked, looking at them suspiciously.

“We know nothing we say will stop you from going after him, Skye.” Nica said, opening one of the saddlebags and tucked the pack inside. “So, we might as well help you be prepared to chase him halfway across the Continent, so you don't get yourself killed.” She explained, securing the bag closed. “There's three changes of clothing, food and water in the pack, it should last you a few days, if you ration it.”

“Here.” Tarzad came around the horse to her, holding out the reins. “Arthas is a good and strong horse, he should do you good to catch up with the Witcher's mare. Take this as well.” He pulled a dagger out of his back pocket and pressed it into her hand.

“It'll help you keep you safe, along with your sword.”

“As well as this.” Nica said, holding out a moderate leather pouch of jiggling gold pieces.

“I can't.” Skye shook her head at them, overwhelmed.

“You can and you will.” Nica told her, sternly.

“That dagger was my father's, his father had given it to him, and so on.” Tarzad explained. “I had hoped to give it to a son, but you're just as, if not more, than worthy of it.”

Skye choked up and hugged her arms around their necks. “Thank you for understanding.” She sniffled, pulling back.

“Love is a funny thing.” Tarzad smiled, hugging his arm around Nica's waist.

“Just be safe, Skye.” Nica replied, her bottom lip wobbling.

“I promise, mama.” Skye assured her. “I am the daughter of a soldier, after all.” She said, grinning at Tarzad.

“That you are, my dear girl.” He smiled back at her. “Now, up you go!” He said, stepping back and letting Skye lift herself into Arthas's saddle. “He's almost a full two days ahead of you.”

“I don't know where to start.” Skye said, as it all came tumbling on top of her.

“He's a white-haired Witcher, Skye.” Nica chuckled, shaking her head. “It's hard to miss him, even when you're not paying attention.”

“That's a fair point.” Skye snorted, nodding her head. “I'll go to Dorian first, see if he passed through and where to, if he did.”

“Sounds like a good start.” Tarzad agreed with her.

– –

Skye rode Arthas into Dorian with all due haste and slipped out of his saddle as she entered the market, leading the Friesian by the reins through the thicket of people bustling around. It was luckily the second day of the Spring market, with the bluster of Winter over, neighboring farms could bring in whatever they had to sell, so they could buy their seeds or farm animals to get the Spring harvest started, in preparation for the next coming Winter. Skye picked her way through the crowd until she found a merchant she was familiar with, and also happened to be the town gossip line.

“Elza!” She cried, throwing on a giant smile as she stopped by the middle aged woman's stall of herbs and seeds.

“Skye!” Elza called back, standing up and throwing her arms around Skye's neck. “How are you, dear girl?” She asked, lowering her arthritic body back into her chair. “I heard you had gone off with a strange man at the start of Winter.”

Skye smirked at her. “I did, but I was wondering, if you've seen a Witcher around? Large, gold-eyes, white-hair, brown mare. Might have passed through the night before the market started.”

Elza drummed her fingers on the corner of her stall, considering and recalling. “Yes, I believe so. I believe a man of that description came through here, very early in the morning.”

“Do you know where he went?” Skye asked, antsy.

“Why would you be chasing after a Witcher?” Elza asked, narrowing her eyes at Skye.

“I have my reasons, do you know where he went?” She replied, growing impatient.

“Mhmm, he went out the northern gate.” She revealed. “Wh-”

Skye quickly turned away from Elza and picked her way out of the crowd, swinging up into Arthas's saddle when the sea of people thinned out and burst through the streets of Dorian, dodging around corners and side streets, towards the north gate of the city, towards Anchor. It took Skye nearly a day to reach Anchor, riding hard most of the day and not stopping when night fell around her, not wanting to waste any more time catching up with Geralt. When she did reach Anchor, a few hours before dawn, she questioned anyone in the streets that might have seen Geralt and Roach, before stepping into the tavern, spent and thirsty.

“What will it be?” The Barkeep asked, as Skye stepped up to the counter.

“Whatever is the warmest and a mug of mead.” She told him, rubbing at her dusty face.

“Are you looking for a room?” A woman behind the bar asked, looking Skye over.

“No.” Skye shook her head, even though she struggled to keep her eyes open. “I am looking for a Witcher, gol--”

“Gold-eyes, white-hair, built like a brick house and broody?” the woman interrupted her, nodding her head with a disapproving crease on her brow. “Yeah, he was here yesterday morning, for a short while, before moving on again.”

A measure of exhaustion in Skye's road-worn body vanished at the lady's words. “Did you see where?” She asked, minty eyes wide with desperation.

“No, I'm sorry.”

Just like that, Skye was tired and deflated again. “Thanks.” She mumbled to the woman and barkeep, taking her food and drink to a table, hunching over it.

“You lookin' for a Witcher?” A gravelly voice asked beside her.

Skye rubbed her gritty eyes and nodded her head, not looking up at the voice's owner. “Geralt of Rivia.” She told him, dunking her wooden spoon into her bowl of hot liquid of some sort that smells slightly fishy.

A body slipped into the chair in front of Skye, elbows on the table. “Why are you looking for the White Wolf?”

“He has something that I want back.” She growled, upper lip twitching at her meal.

“And, what would that be?” the Stranger pressed her.

Skye lifted her head and looked at him, her angry expression never altering as she stared straight into his eyes. She wasn't about to tell this punk that she was tracking the Witcher down for stealing her heart, then having the audacity to run off with it. That would have created more attention and trouble than she already had trying to locate and catch up to Geralt in the first place. So, Skye did the next thing that came to her mind.

“My gold.” She lied, coldly. “I employed him to kill a monster that's been harassing my farm, but the bastard took my money, and ran.” She explained to him, taking a slurp of her food; which was definitely a fish stew.

“I want it back.”

“You think a wee thing, like yourself, can best a Witcher?” The man snorted, grinning and dragging his eyes over her body. “That's rich!” He laughed aloud, slamming a palm down on the table in his fit; spilling some of Skye's early breakfast in the process.

Narrowing her eyes, Skye jerked the dagger Tarzad gave her out and stabbed the tip of it into the table; between the man's slightly spread fingers and made him go pale. “Yes, I do.” She growled, darkly, yanking the dagger out of the table and slipped it back into its sheath in her waistband.

“You're pretty handy with a blade.” He said, examining his hand, not a mark on it.

“I missed.” Skye huffed, chugging down some of her mead. “What do you want, anyway?”

“I overheard you talking to the innkeeper's wife about a Witcher that matched the White Wolf.” He told her, settling his eyes on her. “I happened to see him, on the road, as I made my way home.”

“Oh, and where would that be?”

“On the northeast road from here to Vizima.” He replied and slid his hand, palm up, across the table towards Skye.

“If I find out you're lying, I won't miss the next time I see you.” Skye warned him with a growl, pulling a gold coin out from her pouch and dropping into his hand. “Now, piss off.”

Smirking and closing his hand around the cold metal, the man nodded his head and stood, leaving Skye to finish her food in peace. Finishing her meal, Skye stopped by a merchant's shop to replenish her stock of food, knowing it was going to be a little bit until she arrived in Vizima and didn't want to run the risk of running out, then went on her way, finding the road, that was more a trail, between Anchor and Vizima.

“You think he'll still be there, when we arrive?” Skye asked Arthas, as she sat by the little fire of her camp that night, needing to rest before she fell over. “Why would he do that?” She sighed, looking up the gelding as he munched on the grass. “He kissed me and gave me so many signals that he loved me. I seriously don't believe he's emotionless, either.”

Arthas nickered and huffed through his flaring nostrils, still munching on the sparse grass.

Skye sighed and shook her head. “He's right, he doesn't have a claim on me, since the Law of Surprise doesn't count, but I thought, that since we love each other, that would have been enough. It would have been for me, if the roles were reversed.”

But, just like with Dorian and Anchor, Skye didn't find Geralt in Vizima, and had hit a dead end, no one had seen Geralt pass through the city, and with so many options and routes for Geralt to take on whim and fancy, his trail had gone hopelessly and discouragingly _cold _. He could have gone north to Houtburg or La Valette, or west to Dorndal or Ellander. She was sure he wouldn't be heading back to Kaer Morhen, not until Winter, that is, and that was eight months from now. She considered heading there and waiting out the long months until Geralt returned, explaining to Vesemir what had happened, but shook that off, she wasn't going to wait that long to confront the Witcher on abandoning her like he had.__

__So, Skye did something that was probably more than silly and desperate, she pulled a gold coin out of her pouch, designating heads for north and tails for east, then flipped it, the mid-morning sunlight glinting off of it, before it dropped to the ground at her feet._ _

__Heads._ _

__Picked the coin back up, she did it again, heads for Houtburg and tails for La Valette._ _

__Heads again._ _

__“Houtburg it is, then.” She sighed, storing the coin away and asked a man setting up shop for directions to the city, thanked him and mounted Arthas, going on her way and praying she was going in the right direction._ _


	5. V

Geralt groaned as he sat down on the bench at the far corner of a pub in Upper Posada, a mug of mostly untouched ale on the table in front of him. The sparse patrons dotting various tables, lost in their own conversation and drinks, when the sound of a lute strung up above the murmur of voices, some of the voices dying out as the Bard in the corner diagonal of Geralt started warming up his vocal cords and dove into his first song.

“ _You think you’re safe,  
Without a care!  
But here in Posada,  
You’d be wise to beware.._”

He strummed his lute and slowly moved about the pub, catching a few of the pub goer's eyes.

“ _The pike with the spike,  
That lurks in your drawers  
Or the flying drake,  
That will fill you with horror!_”

People started shifting and giving the Bard dark looks as his song progressed, shaking their heads at him and even a few plugging their ears with their fingers. The Bard stopped by a post, resting his shoulder against it and planting his foot on top of a nearby chair, his eyes focused on Geralt, who continued to ignore him.

“ _Need Old Nan the Hag,  
To stir up a potion!  
So that your lady,  
Might get an abort--_”

The pub patrons turned on him instantly, tossing everything they could at him, bread, mugs and anything else they could get their hands on.

“Abort yourself!” One of the patrons roared, throwing a handful of something at the Bard.

“Hey, hey!” the Bard whined, holding his lute up to protect his young and handsome face from the onslaught. “I'm just so glad I could bring you all together like this.” He huffed, battered back to the corner he started in by the projectiles. “Unbelievable.” He sighed, putting his lute down and stooping to stuff a couple of the bread rolls into his pockets for later.

Straightening back up, Geralt, still staring down at his untouched ale, caught the Bard's attention again. Biting his lip and taking a mug off a tray of a passing barmaid, he dared to get closer to Geralt, oblivious of the vibe coming off the Witcher. “I love the way you just...sit there in the corner and brood.”

Geralt growled and looked away from him. “I'm here to drink alone.” He rasped, his mood had been sour ever since he decided to leave Skye behind at her parents' farm in Temeria, two weeks prior.

“Yeah, okay. Good.” the Bard nodded, not getting the glaring hint to piss off. “No one else hesitated to give me their opinion on my performance, other than...” He pushed off the post he was leaning on beside Geralt's table and helped himself to the seat across from the sullen Witcher. “ _You_.” He finished, rapping his knuckles on the wooden table.

“Come on, you must have some review for me.” He pressed Geralt. “You don't want to keep a man with—bread—in his pants waiting. Three words or less.”

“They don't exist.” Geralt replied, gruffly.

The Bard blinked at him, confused. “What doesn't exist?” He frowned, shaking his head.

Geralt simply blinked at the younger male. “The creatures in your song.” He answered, after an awkward pause and realizing the Bard wasn't going to leave until he answered him.

“Oh, fun!” The Bard grinned, finding it was a game and lightly drummed his hands on the table. “White hair, big old loner, two very scary swords--”

Grunting, Geralt looked at his coin bag as the Bard rattled off descriptives about him, noting the single coin he had left from the job he did in Lyria for killing a Bruxa a few days before. Pressing his lips together, he grabbed the strings of his coin bag, letting the coin drop, quietly leaving it for the Bard and hoping he would get the point to leave him alone, as he grabbed his swords leaning against the wall behind him, stepped around the table and headed for the door.

Smirking, the Bard picked up the coin and quickly stood up. “You're Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher.” He called after Geralt, who only hesitated for a split moment, but it was enough. “Called it!” He yelled at him, grinning, and proud of himself.

The pub patrons twisted in their seats and stared after Geralt, one of them shooting up out of his seat and going after Geralt. “Wait!” He called, picking up his step before Geralt could get out the door. “I have a monster for ye, Witcher!” He said, relieved when Geralt stopped, but didn't turn back to him. “A Devil, it's stealing all of our grain.” He explained, heart pounding as he stood before the Witcher.

“I'll pay you, a hundred gold.”

Geralt turned towards the window that was by the door, weighing his interest, then frowned at the kid. “One-fifty.” He sighed, rolling his eyes.

“You leave no prisoners, so I've been told.” The kid said, holding out the stuffed coin bag to Geralt.

Taking the bag of coin, Geralt turned back to the door and strode out, crossing the swaying bridge that linked Posada to the rest of the Continent and where he had left Roach to graze on the tall grass. “Come on, Roach.” He bid the mare, untying her from the hitching post and led her up the path toward where he was told the supposed Devil resided in the hills.

“Need a hand!” A voice called behind Geralt as he ascended the upward climbing dirt road. “I've got two.” The Bard said, catching up alongside him. “One for each of the Devil's horns.”

“Go away.” Geralt barked at him.

“Yeah, I'll only be silent back up.” He said, not giving in. “I got what you were saying back in Posada. Maybe real adventures and monsters would make for better stories and songs, and you, sir, smell chock-full of them.” He rambled on. “Amongst other things, is that onions? You smell like death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak.”

Geralt paused at his use of the word, _heartbreak_ , which poured salt into the broken pieces of Geralt's heart, adding to his pain and fueling his anger. He looked at Roach, as if to ask, _'should I kill the Bard?'_

Then, turned to face him.

“Come here.”

“Yeah?” The Bard grinned, naively stepping closer to Geralt, only to be given a stiff punch to the stomach, knocking all the air out of his lithe body and stumble to the ground, onto his hands and knees.

“Come on, Roach.” Geralt said, turning back up the road and continued on, sure that the annoying Bard would get the point to get lost and leave him be, before he did something worse.

But, aggravatingly enough, the Bard didn't get the hint. After a few minutes to recover his breath and get back onto his feet, the Bard was running up beside him again. Geralt twisted Roach's reins around his gloved fist, trying to hold himself back from tossing the Bard over the side of the road that let out into a steep cliff and the valley of Posada below. The Bard babbled the whole way up the mountain towards the supposed location to the _'Devil of Posada'_ , as the Bard was calling it.

“Were I to join you on this feat, to kill the Devil of Posada. I could relieve you of the title of Butcher of Blaviken. I could be your barker, telling the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf.”

“Butcher is right.” Geralt huffed, rolling his eyes.

“You mind, if I hop up there with you?” the Bard asked, his feet killing him from walking so far. “I'm not wearing the right shoes for all of this.”

“Don't touch Roach!” Geralt barked at him, sharply, but pulling Roach to a stop.

“No, right. Fine.” the Bard sighed, frowning.

Geralt got down off Roach, noticing the Bard flinch as he did, fearing that Geralt was going to hit him again, which did nothing, but inwardly made the Witcher feel even worse. Skye would have told him off, for being so mean and hitting the Bard for no reason other than being annoyed by him for not getting the hint and buggering off. Sighing, Geralt led Roach the rest of the way up the path and found a sturdy tree to tie Roach's reins to it.

“You know, the Elves used to all this place Dol Blathanna, before bestowing it to the Humans.” the Bard said, gazing around the mountain side. “Then, vanished into their Golden Palaces, in the mountains.”

Shaking his head, Geralt disappeared through the tall grass and brush, leaving the Bard to continue on with his ramble.

“There I go again, just delivering expositions.” Then, noticed Geralt walking off. “Geralt. Geralt! Where are you going?” He called after him, jogging to keep up. “What are we looking for again?”

“Blessed silence.” He rasped, moving between two rock formations and missing the comfortable silence that would fall between him and Skye.

“Yeah, I don't really go in for that.” the Bard shook his head. “Have you ever hunted a Devil before, Geralt?” He asked, wanting to get as much information out of the Witcher as he could, for future songs and poems.

“Devils aren't real.” Geralt huffed, like it should be obvious. “Sometimes there's monsters and sometimes there's money. Rarely both.” He explained, moving slowly as he scanned the area. “That's the life.”

“Then, what are we hun--”

“Shit!” Geralt barked, something wheezed through the air and struck him on the forehead, leaving a deep gash behind, as he retreated backward to the cover of one of the rock formations.

“Act Two begins!” The Bard announced happily, throwing out his arms and stepping forward.

“What was that that hit you? It was like a teeny cannonball from a—oh my gosh” He paused, catching sight of a pair of horns in the tall grass in front of him. “Geralt, it is a devil. I have to see this amazing, this marv--” Another projectile flew through the air and struck the Bard in almost the exact same spot on the forehead Geralt had been, then dropped, like a lead weight, sending up a plume of dust as he hit the ground.

Geralt lifted a brow at the downed Bard, half thinking how nice it was he had shut up, before pulling aside some of the tall grass beside him, and started slowly stalking forward. The bleat of a Goat broke the humid air and Geralt was rammed in the gut, sending him flying backwards to the ground beside the Bard.

“Leave me be!” the Goat-like creature screamed.

“You talk!” Geralt barked, jumping back up onto his feet, stopping the creature from ramming him again, and tossed it to the ground.

“Of course I talk.”

“What happened to you?” Geralt asked, holding the creature down with a forearm to its chest. “Your mother fuck a goat.”

“I'm Torque, a Sylvan.” The Creature barked, struggling. “A rare and intelligent creature.”

“You're a dick.” Geralt laughed, amused by the situation. “With balls.” He added, laughing at him.

“Balls I got from humans, who left them out to poison me.” the Sylvan growled, yanking out a handful of Geralt's hair. “Did your mother fuck a snowman?” He asked, turning Geralt's joke around on him.

Amusement lost, Geralt punched the Sylvan square in the face, bloodying its nose. “You are intelligent, I'll give you that. So, I won't kill you.” He told him, sympathetically. “But, you can't stay here.”

“Neither can you.” Torque replied, and a moment later, everything went black for Geralt.

– –

Skye had zero luck catching up with Geralt, but hadn't let that stop her, she knew she'd cross paths with the Witcher again, it was just a matter of time, patience and listening for the right tales about him. She had heard from a farmer outside of Hagge, who had seen Geralt passing through, on the road towards Lyria. So, she turned herself and Arthas that direction, arriving four days later and stayed for almost two days, asking anyone and everyone, if they had seen the Witcher and found someone, finally, that said they had, that the Alderman had employed the Witcher's help killing a Bruxa nearly two weeks before, but they didn't see what direction he had left in.

She had started to worry, though. Her gold was dwindling, as hard as she was trying to spare as little of it as possible, as was her food source. She had come across a farm just outside of Lyria, a crop of corn growing high in the field, and waited until nightfall to secret herself into the field and picked several ears of it. Skye had also bought a small role of fishing line and a hook, teaching herself how to patiently fish in the streams she came across. Other than that, she'd go a day or so without eating, trying to keep her supply going a little while longer.

Picking a new direction, Skye rode from Lyria to Vergen, opening to get lucky there.

“Have you seen the white-haired Witcher, Geralt of Rivia?” She asked the first person she saw coming into the city, but they just shook their head and went on their way.

Sighing, Skye led Arthas through the city, stopping every so often to ask someone if they had seen Geralt, but none of them had. Discouraged, Skye found a shady spot to rest, the hot day wearing her down. Removing her water skin from Arthas's bag, she took it to the small fountain in a square in the middle of the town, refilling it, then cupping her hands and taking deep mouthfuls of the cold mountain water, sighing as it refreshed her dry mouth, even splashing some in her hot and dirty face, and the back of her neck. Going back to Arthas, Skye removed her coin pouch from one of his saddlebags, pouring the pitiful amount of coins out into her hand and counting them.

“Thirty.” She sighed, a deep anxiety settling into her tired bones. “We have thirty gold left, Arthas. We should have just turned back and gone home. But, that won't help us find Geralt, the pig-headed lout.” She grumbled, putting the coins back in their bag. “A month and a half of trailing him and nothing, but week old accounts.”

“When I do find that dumb Witcher, I'm shoving my boot down his throat.”

She had said all these threats to Arthas before, usually after scouring the last known place Geralt was seen at or rumored to be, tired and tossing on her bedroll as she camped at the edge of town or between cities. But, deep down, she didn't mean any of it, she missed him, her heart only aching more and more, the longer they were apart. It was later that night, while she was sitting in a tavern, slowly nursing an ale and sheltering herself from the Spring rain that had started falling just after noon, when a few drunks started piping up with a song that had Skye's blood freezing in her veins.

“ _When the White Wolf fought  
A silver-tongued devil  
His army of elves  
At his hooves did they revel.._”

Her head jerked towards them as they continued to sing and even got a few of the other patrons to chime in with them.

“ _Toss a coin to your Witcher  
O Valley of Plenty!  
O Valley of Plenty!  
Toss a coin to your Witcher  
O Valley of Plenty!_”

“Hey.” She barked at one of the revelers at the table beside hers. “Where did you hear that song?” She asked, her hands shaking as she grasped her mug.

“It's being sung in damn near every tavern across the Continent.” the man at the table laughed, and chugged down the rest of his ale.

“ _Who_ 's song is it?” Skye demanded, pulling out a gold coin and waving it in his face, knowing it would give the drunk incentive to answer her properly, if it meant his next drink was on her.

“A Bard, Jack or something.” He said, bloodshot eyes following the sparkling coin.

“Jaskier, you idiot.” A female sitting beside him snapped, shaking her head. “By far a better lay than you ever have been.” She added with a huff.

“I'll give you another one, if you can tell me where to find him.” Skye said, after dropping the first coin into the man's beefy palm.

“Somewhere near Rinde.” The woman said, arm shooting across the man and snatching the coin from Skye before the man could.

Downing the rest of her own drink and rushing out of the tavern, Skye found where she left Arthas and tore through Vergen and out the gate, riding in the direction of Rinde, like the hounds of hell were after her.

– –

“Ah, Geralt! I heard you were here, are you following me, you scamp?” The Bard asked, finding Geralt standing beside the lake in his hometown of Rinde.

“No.” Geralt rasped, fussing over a fishing net for a few minutes, before tossing into the lake, for the hundredth time that morning.

“Well, I am starving, fancy sharing some of your catch with me for breakfast?” He asked, tilting his head at the Witcher.

“I'm not fishing, Jaskier.” He sighed, pulling the net back in and found it empty.

“Then, what are you looking for?” the Bard frowned, growing concerned by the exhausted look and dark circles on Geralt's face.

Taking up the net, Geralt moved farther down the shore of the lake, looking for a fresh spot. The Bard followed after him, watching him for several moments as he repeatedly tossed and pulled the net in and out of the water, each time coming up empty.

“Talk to me, Geralt, what's the matter?”

Geralt opened his mouth, brain working to form the words that would explain his thinking, on how he was feeling; but failed and said the first thing that came to his mind. “A djinn.” He uttered, laying the net out on the bank and untangling it again.

“A djinn, like a genie?” Jaskier frowned at him, blinking at his friend. “The float-y fellows with the banned magics and wishes, that djinn?”

“Yes.” Geralt replied, standing up and swinging the net back into the dark waters.

“Geralt.” He laughed, amused, and shook his head at the Witcher. “Why would you--”

“It'll give me wishes!” Geralt hissed, startling the Bard. “It's in this lake somewhere-” He swept his arm out over the water. “And I can't fucking sleep!” He yelled, eyes glowing with his anger.

Jaskier gulped at Geralt, eyes wide with surprise at his friend's agitation. “Is this a problem, where you're trying to rub salve on a tumor?” He asked, even more concerned for the White Wolf.

“No.” Geralt barked, but faltered as he started to throw the net back in again. “That's not it.” He added, softly.

But, that was _exactly_ what he was doing.

He had heard about a Wizard trapping a djinn in a bottle several years back and thought nothing of it, sure it was stuff and nonsense. But, since Skye, since _leaving_ Skye, Geralt had thought about the djinn more and more, slowly convincing himself that finding the djinn would be the best solution to the growing hurt he had inside of himself, that was keeping him wide awake at night, or any other time he tried to find sleep and peace. He had convinced himself that wishing he and Skye had never heard of each other before, would be the best for both of them. He could go back to being an emotionless and unbothered Witcher and Skye could find someone worthy of her love and devotion. But, even then, Geralt knew it was nothing but smoke, that even if he could find the fabled djinn in the Rinde lake, he wouldn't be able to bring himself to wish her away from his mind and life.

Let alone his heart and soul.

“Why do you want this djinn, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, sitting down on a fallen log beside him on the lakeshore.

“Because.” Geralt huffed, he really didn't want to tell the Bard, knowing Jaskier would poke massive holes into his reasoning, without even trying or meaning too.

“You know, my muse and reason for living in this world, the Countess de Stael, once told me, _'that Destiny is just the embodiment of the Soul's desire to grow.'_ Though, that was before she left me, rather coldly, I might add.”

“Did you sing to her before she left?” Geralt asked, squatting by the lake's edge.

“I di—what's that supposed to mean?” Jaskier frowned, catching Geralt's dry insult.

Geralt paused what he was doing and looked over at Jaskier with a look that said it plainly.

“Oh, we are having this conversation!” He hissed, narrowing his eyes at the Witcher. “Go ahead, Geralt. Tell me what you think of my singing.”

Standing up and casting the net into the lake, Geralt frowned. “It's like ordering a pie, and finding it has no filling.” He told him, bluntly.

“You, sir!” Jaskier barked, wounded. “Need a nap! Are you trying to hurt my feelings, Geralt!”

Geralt reeled the net back towards the shore and perked up, feeling a weight to it, and pulled it in faster, finding something caught up in the net that wasn't a fish. Squatting down, he quickly untangled the net from around the object and felt a bittersweet elation, seeing the clay amphora with a wizard's seal on the cork.

“It's down—downright uncouth of you, if I'm--”

Jaskier paused in his tirade seeing Geralt standing up with the amphora in his hand, wiping the dulse and grime off of it.

“Wha-wha-what is that?” He stammered, moving closer to Geralt for a better look at it.

“It's a Wizard's seal.” Geralt answered, gripping the seal. “The djinn!”

“Do you mind--” Jaskier asked, grabbing the handle of the amphora and tried yanking it out of Geralt's hand, which was futile.

“Jaskier.” Geralt hissed, tugging back on the vessel. “Give it back.”

“Not until you apologize for that bit about my fillingless pie.” the Bard replied, grabbing the amphora by both handles and struggling with Geralt, who held onto the seal with a single hand. “Take it back, then you can have your djinny-djinn-djinn.”

“Let go.” Geralt ordered him, gruffly, jaw tight, and barely using his strength to hold onto the bottle with one hand.

“No! No, you let go, you horse's arse!” He barked back, giving the amphora one good jerk with his body.

The seal on the amphora came free with a wet pop, leaving Jaskier holding the bottle and Geralt, the seal. Both of them looked between the two objects, waiting for the djinn, or anything, to happen now that the seal had been broken and the urn was open.

But, there was nothing.

“Hm.” Geralt grunted, disappointed.

“Well, that was a bit anticlimactic.” Jaskier sighed, tipping the vase upside down to see if anything fell out. “Or was it?” He asked, perking up, as a stiff breeze rustled through the fallen leaves and trees by the lakeside, stirring through Geralt and Jaskier's clothing and hair.

Excited at the prospect of having a djinn at his disposal, Jaskier rushed to the edge of the water and started barking out orders at the invisible entity. “Djinn! I have freed thee and from this day forth, I am thy lord and master!” He howled above the still stirring winds.

Geralt stood in place, glancing around as a cold chill raced down his spine, his gut telling him something very malevolent was surrounding them, no doubt the djinn, for being locked away for countless years and Jaskier starting to bark out his first wish.

“Firstly, may my rival, Valdo Marx, the troubadour of Cidaris, be struck with apoplexy and _die_.” He said, with surprising coldness. “Secondly, the Countess de Stael must welcome me back with happiness, open arms, and _very_ little clothing.”

“Thirdly--”

“Jaskier!” Geralt barked, grabbing the back of the Bard's expensive and flamboyant shirt, and yanked him backwards, halting him from making his third wish. “There's only _three_ wishes.”

“Oh, come on, Geralt! You've always said you wanted nothing from life.” Jaskier argued, angry. “How was I supposed to know you wanted three wishes, _all_ to yourself!”

“All I want is some damn peace!” Geralt roared back at him, teeth bared.

“Well, here's your damn peace!” He hissed back, smashing the amphora on the ground.

Geralt growled at the Bard and bent down to start picking up the pieces of the vessel, accidentally cutting himself in the process. The wind around them kicked up and a sharp pain seared through Jaskier's throat, leaving him wheezing and struggling to breath.

“Ger-Geralt.” He rasped, tearing at the collar of his shirt. “Geralt, the djinn.”

Shooting back to his feet, Geralt turned towards the lake and thrust out his arm for his Aard, striking the djinn and sending it screeching away. Glancing down at the deep cut on his forearm, Geralt turned towards Jaskier and frowned, seeing his neck swelling, and grew instantly concerned for his friend.

“Jaskier?” He whispered, as Jaskier reached out for him, rested his hand on his back and took his arm, steadying him. “Fuck.” He snapped, watching Jaskier cough up a mouthful of blood.

Not wasting a moment, Geralt supported Jaskier to Roach, got into her saddle and pulled Jaskier up behind him. Making sure the Bard was holding on tightly, Geralt spurred Roach hard in the sides and set out for Rinde at a steady gallop, the sound of Jaskier's struggled and painful wheezes in his ear as they rode.

“Is there a doctor here!” He called out seeing an Elven guard standing watch by the road.

“Yes, yes!” The Elf nodded, taking a puff off of his pipe and pointed to a white tent just behind him with the stem. “Chireadan, the Elf healer.”

Pulling Roach to a stop and swinging his leg over the saddle, Geralt slid to the ground, grabbed Jaskier and wrapped his arm around his shoulders, half supporting and half dragging the Bard into the tent. The Elven healer, Chireadan, was bent over another patient that was laying in one of the four beds in the modestly sized tent, as they burst in. Hearing Jaskier's throaty wheezing and seeing the blood dripping from his pale lips, the Elf politely abandoned the patient he was tending to and motioned Geralt to a bed he could sit Jaskier on.

“What's happened here?” He asked, pushing away the open collar of Jaskier's shirt, eyes wide at the fat swelling of his throat, that looked like the vocal sac of a frog, it was so large and inflamed.

“A djinn.” Geralt replied, looming over the Elf and Jaskier, protectively.

“Like, a djinn in a bottle?” Chireadan frowned, shocked. “It's like a fairy tale.”

“Minus the happy ending.” Geralt retorted, pressing his lips together. “Can you cure him?”

“Oh dear.” the Healer gasped, Jaskier pitifully grasping and pawing at him as he continued to examine his throat.

“What?” Geralt hissed, not liking the Elf's tone or facial expression.

“I promise you, that I have the best medical education and training here in Rinde. But,...” The Elf started to explain to them both, deeply concerned. “these are magical injuries. I can help the pain.”

Jaskier nodded his head at that idea.

“But it's like..”

“Putting salve on a tumor?” Geralt asked, lifting brow at Jaskier.

“No.” Jaskier rasped and wheezed, shaking his head at the Witcher.

“His throat has been attacked by the djinn.” Chireadan elaborated to Geralt. “If the magic isn't halted, soon enough, it will spread.” He picked through various bottles of dried herbs and liquids, pouring a few into a small glass cup. “He can die.” He said bluntly, not wishing to sugar coat it.

“Fuck, Geralt!” Jaskier whined, frightened.

Geralt grabbed Jaskier's arm and laid his hand on his back, trying to comfort him the best way he could. “We won't let that happen.” He said with an awkward assurity.

“Here, drink this.” Chireadan held the elixir to Jaskier's lips, helping him carefully swallow it down.

Jaskier groaned and whimpered as he sipped down the foul tasting solution, making his throat feel like he was drinking liquid fire. Geralt stared down at him, frowning, as he worried, and mentally beat himself for being so reckless. Everything he feared would happen, was happening. First, he'd hurt Skye by breaking her heart and abandoning her, then in his selfish quest to rid himself of the agony caused by his own ridiculous mistakes and choices, it ended up backfiring, and catching poor Jaskier in the crossfire. He had wounded the love of his life and just might have killed his best friend.

The weight of his choices since leaving Kaer Morhen were crushing him down more and more.

“You'll need to go to another town, to find a mage, who can cure him.” Chireadan said, breaking through Geralt's mental cloud of guilt.

“There's no mage here?” Geralt frowned, brow deeply creased.

“The town official said, they are dangerous.” The Elf shyly replied, biting his lip and unable to look Geralt in the eye.

“What aren't you saying?” Geralt pressed, narrowing his eyes at the healer. “Tell me.” He added in a low rumble.

“There is only one mage, I was tasked with bringing this mage in. But,” He paused again, and only continued with Geralt's threatening step forward. “I was unable to capture them, I was incapable of infiltrating certain defenses of theirs. So, the mayor had another do it, and has the mage locked in his home.”

“That was so fucking hard, was it?” Geralt snapped, hauling Jaskier to his feet, and starting for the flap of the tent.

“Wait.” Chireadan snapped, stopping Geralt from leaving the tent. “You have to be careful, the mage is rather cunning and malicious.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, he wasn't afraid of mages, he'd dealt with hundreds of them in his life, one more won't do him any harm. “Right, I'll go find him.”

– –

With a sigh of relief, Skye finally made it to Rinde, only stopping long enough to allow Arthas to rest and be watered. The ordinary five day trip from Vergen, only took Skye three, bound and determined to catch up with Geralt before he could vanish into thin air again.

“Ms, you can go no farther!” a guard said, stopping Skye at the gate.

“What?” Skye snapped, frowning at him. “Why not?”

“It is too dangerous, you must turn back.” He told her, waving her away. “I am sorry.” He added, but Skye didn't move.

“Why is it dangerous?” She demanded, leaning forward in the saddle.

“There is a manic Witcher on the loose, the officials are trying to restrain him, before his rampage endangers anyone else in the town.”

Skye blinked at him, mouth hanging open and slowly turned Arthas away from the guard and gate. “Geralt, what the hell are you doing?” She frowned and rode a little ways away, out of sight of the guard.

Hopping down from Arthas's saddle and tying him to a tree, Skye snuck around, trying to find an opening or unmanned gate into Rinde, so she could get through. Crouching behind a low wall, Skye watched the guard stationed at the gate she had just tried to get through, stopping another person trying to enter Rinde. Taking the opening, she quickly ran for the gate, slipping through and dodging behind a nearby building as the guard turned back towards the gate. Checking to see if the coast was clear, Skye started moving through the mostly empty streets of the ordinarily bustling town of Rinde.

She heard a loud ruckus coming from a nearby shop, its doors busted open and the sounds of screams of help and pain coming from it. “What is the chance?” Skye huffed to herself, rolling her eyes and heading towards the shop, the Pawnbroker's, read the sign above the door.

Lo and behold, there was the infamous White Wolf, having obviously smashed nearly everything in the Pawnbroker's shop and now had said Pawnbroker, trapped in a corner, where he was mercilessly kicking him between the legs. Even Skye winced at each of the full strength kicks to the poor man's genitals.

“Help me!” The Pawnbroker howled, shaking in agony and fear, as he saw Skye standing there, mouth hanging open.

Snapping out of it, Skye advanced on Geralt. “Geralt, stop!” She barked, wrapping her arms around one of his and yanking as hard as she could. “Stop this, Geralt!” She begged him, giving up on pulling him and tried pushing him sideways, only getting a similar outcome.

“This isn't you, Geralt!” She screamed, punching him in the shoulder and side. “Please!” She pleaded with him as he continued to kick the Pawnbroker, acting as if her blows were nothing more than the pathetic bites of a flea.

“Motherfucker!” She howled, managing to wedge herself between Geralt and the Pawnbroker, blocking a couple of the kicks with her own body, bruises forming within seconds after each blow. “Come on, Geralt!” She panted, frantically searching his face.

His eyes were glassed over, face set in a snarl of anger, yet somehow blank and distant.

“What's happened to you?” She whined and hissed as she blocked another blow, punching him in the chest a few times.

“Magic!” The Pawnbroker screamed, as Skye missed a blow and he got another kick between the legs. “That bitch of a mage has taken control of his mind with her vile magic.”

Skye's shoulders dropped, “Not again.” She sighed, then slapped Geralt across the face, hoping it would snap him out of it, but it only seemed to anger him more and shift his full focus onto her. “Oh fuck.” She whimpered, gulping up at him.

Geralt grabbed the front of Skye's shirt, yanking her against his heaving body, then twisted sideways and shoved her away; sending Skye flying through a bank of shelves that crashed down on top of her as she landed, knocking her out. His influenced attention losing interest in both the Pawnbroker and Skye, and turning on his heels, Geralt strode out of the Pawnbroker's shop and stormed towards his next target. Whining, the Pawnbroker gingerly crawled out of the corner and towards where Skye was laid out, a trickle of blood streaming down her forehead, from a cut at her hairline and above her left eye.

“Girl.” The Pawnbroker groaned, gingerly shaking Skye, half terrified she was dead.

“Kobus!” A voice screamed out, as a soldier filled the broken doorway of the shop.

“Here, Berg.” The Pawnbroker, Kobus, shouted back, still trying to stir Skye.

“Who is she?” Berg asked, picking his way through the ruined shop.

“I don't know.” Kobus responded, pushing away the blood matted hair on Skye's face, trying to see how bad the wound was. “She took some of the punishment the Witcher was giving me, then he tossed her into my shelves.” He explained, wincing at the nasty gash.

“Here, splash her with this.” Berg said, taking a water skin from his belt and handing it to Kobus.

Uncorking the water skin, Kobus tipped it upside down and poured all the water out of it, over Skye's face. With a sputter, Skye came back around, coughing as some of the water went in her nose, and tried sitting up, woozy and aching. She looked at the two men standing over her, recognizing the Pawnbroker, but not the other man.

“Who are you?” She asked, finally managing to sit up.

“I could ask you the same.” Berg replied, lifting a suspicious brow at her. “What is your relation to the Witcher?” She asked.

“He owes me something important.” Skye replied, stumbling to her feet and leaned against the Pawnbroker's counter.

“And what would that be?” Berg pressed her, narrowing his eyes.

“That's my personal business.” She snapped, gingerly touching the cuts on her face. “Looks like he's going to owe me a hell of a lot more, when this is all over.” She added to herself, pushing off the counter.

“I don'--”

The sound of screams in the streets stopped Berg from interrogating Skye further, all three of them stumbling out of the shop at the sound of them. Skye groaned, rolling her throbbing eyes back as she watched Geralt forcefully drag another man out of his shop, the Apothecary, it looked like, and tossed him into the middle of the street. Nabbing the Apothecary, before he could crawl away from him, Geralt hauled the Apothecary up onto their feet, yanked their belt free from the loops of their trousers, which fell down around his ankles, and promptly started thrashing the Apothecary's ass with the belt.

Skye, Kobus and Berg's mouths dropped to the cobblestone street as they watched him spank the poor Apothecary.

“Witcher!” A voice yelled and an Elf came running into view and towards Geralt, trying to stop him from doing any further damage.

Skye tried to run forward, but Berg grabbed her around the waist, holding her back. “Arrest them!” Berg yelled to several other guards, who were likely standing around with slack jaws, but they quickly jumped into action, seizing the Elf and, after a mild struggle and a blow to the back of his head, subdued Geralt.

The soldiers carried Geralt and the Elf away, and Berg turned his attention back to Skye. “What are your dealings with the Witcher?” He asked her again. “Be truthful this time, or you will be joining them in their cell.” He warned her.

“I hired the pig-headed lout to kill a drowned dead on my farm and he took the money I paid, then ran.” Skye hissed, hotly. “I want it back!” She told him, repeating the same twisted lie she had been telling anyone that asked, it had become second nature over the last several weeks.

“Well, you won't be getting your money back from that Witcher.” Berg huffed, letting her go. “He's attacked two of the Rinde council members.”

“And he'll be hanged for it, too!” The Pawnbroker growled, lip twitching and stood in a slight hunched position, hand resting gingerly on his wounded crotch.

Skye let out an angry and disgruntled huff, despite her stomach twisting into nauseating and icy knots. “As long as the jerk gets what he deserves for taking liberties with people.” She spat out, feeling her knees shake as her mind raced to figure out a way to save Geralt from the gallows.

– –

“ _Geralt!_ ”

“Skye.”

“ _Geralt!_ ”

“Skye.”

“ _Ger_ —wake up!”

“Skye?”

“ _G_ —wake up!”

“Wake up!”

“Hm.” Geralt groaned, the sound of Skye calling him slowly fading and changing, until he opened his eyes, a blurry vision of someone in front of his face, until it cleared. “Chireadan?” He frowned at the Elf healer.

“At long last.” Chireadan replied and stepped back from Geralt, the tinkling sound of chains following his movements.

Geralt looked around the strange vaulted and brick ceiling and walls, feeling the tight iron clasped around his wrists. “Where are we?” He asked, his body throbbing as he laid on the cold, hard floor of the dungeon cell, before sitting himself up.

“The spa.” Chireadan replied, irritated. “Where do you think? I hope your rampage was well worth it.” He added, more angrily.

“Rampage?” Geralt frowned, steadying himself. “What did I do?”

“Where do I begin?” the Elf asked, lifting his brows at the Witcher. “You attacked a Pawnbroker in his shop, kicking him in the delicate places.” He explained, as Geralt moved about the cell.

“Hm.” He grunted, shaking the secure bars on the windows.

“You dragged out the Apothecary, yanked down his pants and thrashed his arse with his own belt.” Chireadan continued, as Geralt shook the cell door. “Both are on the town council, that are trying to overthrow the mayor and kick out the mage you sought help from.”

“Do you remember none of this?” He asked, once Geralt gave up on trying to find a way out.

“Like a faded dream.”

“Your punishment will be passed by the very members you attacked,” Chireadan said, grimly. “It's more than like to be death.” He added in a more somber tone. “By hanging.”

Geralt sighed and shook his head, “That's one way to get some peace.” He mumbled, sitting back down on the floor, his back against the wall, literally and figuratively.

“Why did you go to the mage after I told you not too?” Chireadan berated him, shaking with anger. “It's like you thought the scorpion was more beautiful than the spider, because of its lovely tail!”

“You didn't exactly tell me who she was.”

Chireadan relaxed, knowing that getting angry at their situation wasn't going to get them out of it. “I admit I could have warned you better about Yennefer.”

“You're under her spell, aren't you?” Geralt rasped, looking the Elf in the eyes and reading his body language.

“No.” Chireadan shook his head, tired and defeated. “It's a simple problem of body chemistry.” He admitted, begrudgingly.

Geralt blinked at him, tilting his head forward. “You're in love with her?”

“Yes.” He nodded, biting his lip. “I believe we both understand each other now.”

An opening door reverberated through the brick dungeon and the sound of steps approaching echoed towards them. Geralt and Chireadan stood as the owner of the steps appeared in the arched doorway that opened into a room to their cell.

“Ah, fuck.” Geralt grumbled under his breath seeing the guard he knocked out, so he could gain access to the Mayor's house and get Jaskier to the mage, Yennefer, before he died.

“You remember me, Witcher?” the Guard asked and leaned his forehead between the cell bars, grinning at Geralt.

Geralt pressed his lips together and smiled tightly back, giving the guard a soft nod of his head.

“I did not know you were a Witcher, last we met.” the Guard chuckled, his expression smug. “I've always wanted to play with one of you, and it looks like I get to, before we hang you in the morning.”

– –

Skye had stayed behind Berg from a safe distance as he left the main area of Rinde. She knew he had to be someone of importance since he could order the soldiers around without being questioned. So, she trailed after him and did her best not to get caught or draw any attention to herself.

Ducking into a side alley, Skye pressed her back flush to the wall as Berg stopped and looked around, before entering a building two doors down from Skye's hiding place. Calming her heart, Skye slipped back out onto the walkway and quickly made her way to the door Berg vanished into, pressing her ear to the smooth and worn wood. Hearing the faintest muffled sounds through the door, Skye carefully opened it and slipped inside, quietly closing the door behind her.

Scanning the plastered and river rock room, Skye tiptoed towards the only other door there was, behind a counter and large desk. The door was propped open and creaked as she tried pushing it open, making her wince, before she squeezed her body through the available crack, the door complaining as she did. Skye stood glued to the wall beside the door, heart pounding, as she expected Berg or someone else to come into the hall and find her there. Luckily, it didn't seem like anyone heard the door, or anyone was around at all, but she knew at least Berg had to be, there was nowhere else for him to be in the building.

Tiptoeing slowly over the slate flooring and taking one careful step after another, mindful to the squeak of her leather soles as she did, Skye found there were five arched doorways along the hall she was in, two to the left and three to the right. Biting her lip, Skye poked her head around the first doorway on the left and found an empty and shabby office, then moved across the hall and peeked into the first doorway on the right, finding an empty cell. Crossing to the second doorway on the left, she found another empty cell, then moved across the hall again, to the middle doorway along the right side of the hall, but froze, hearing the soft echo of a voice, Berg's voice.

“ _I did not know you were a Witcher, last we met._ ” Berg was saying.

Biting her lip, Skye zigzagged across the hallway until she made it to the last doorway on the right, she squatted down and carefully peeked around the corner. She saw Berg standing at the cell's bars, the Elf that had tried stopping Geralt in the street, then Geralt himself, who looked like he had snapped out of the trance the mage had put him under.

“ _I've always wanted to play with one of you, and it looks like I get to, before we hang you in the morning._ ” Berg told Geralt, sounding extremely excited about the prospect.

Skye jerked and slapped a hand over her mouth, hearing the door at the end of the hall start to open. Thinking and moving quickly, Skye ran down the hall and dove into the doorway of the closet cell, just as steps came up the hall, going towards Geralt and the Elf's cell, the jingle of keys thumping against the new person's thigh.

“You asked for the keys, Master Berg?” the person asked, stopping in the doorway and lifting the keys from the loop of his belt.

“Yes, Daren.” Berg nodded, grinning maliciously at Geralt and stepping away from the cell door.

Daren stepped forward, flipping through several of the keys until he found the one for Geralt's cell and opened it for Berg. Stepping inside, Berg ordered Daren to lock the door again behind him.

“I'll call you, when I've finished with the Witcher.” Berg told him, flexing and popping his gloved fingers.

Daren locked the cell and went to the little office Skye had seen on her inspection of the hallway. Listening carefully, Skye heard the scrape of the wooden chair legs on the slate flooring and Daren's groan as he lowered himself onto the chair. Taking the cue, Skye crouched and slowly crawled into the hallway and along with wall, back to Geralt's cell, peeking around the door as Berg sized up Geralt, who was unfairly shackled to a short chain, fastened to an anchor in the floor and clasped around the wrists, there was no way for Geralt to fight back or really defend himself against Berg. Berg slowly bent down and grabbed the chain to Geralt's cuffs, wrapping a bit of it around his hand and yanked Geralt towards him, using the forward momentum to drive him knee into Geralt's stomach, and unable to properly catch himself as Geralt fell, hit the ground face first; making Skye wince.

Berg grabbed the back of Geralt's shirt and pulled him up onto his knees. “What's the difference between a Witcher and a tub of dung?” He asked, then kneed Geralt in the face.

Geralt groaned at the blow, wobbling on his knees, but started laughing and nodded his head. “I know that one.” He chuckled, amused.

Yanking him to his feet, Berg punched Geralt in the kidney, turned him around and struck him across the face, sending him stumbling back into the cell bars. Skye watched Geralt's beating with a twisted heart and hopelessness as she tried to figure out how to get him out of there. But, the answer came for her, literally. So consumed and distracted by watching Berg beating Geralt, Skye missed the steps coming up behind her, until a hand twisted into the back of her shirt, making her yelp as she was pulled clear off her hands and knees, and slammed against the brick wall by the doorway. Daren pinned Skye to the wall by the shoulders, his face so close to hers, the tip of their noses brushed.

“Who are you?” He hissed, hot breath wafting over Skye's face.

“Who are you?”

She echoed back, blinking at him as her hand slowly moved towards her scabbard and her sword, but her face paled, when she touched her bare thigh, realizing she had forgotten her sword on Arthas's saddle outside of Rinde. Daren felt the movement of her hand through her shoulder and glanced down, chuckling, when he realized what had caused her to go ashen, and met her eye again.

“Forget something?” He teased her, smugly.

“Not really.” Skye replied, then drove her knee up into his groin, causing him to howl at the top of his lungs.

The three men in the cell heard his yelp of pain and froze, heads snapping to the doorway.

“Daren, what is all that!” Berg yelled out to his deputy, but didn't receive an answer. “Daren!” He barked, growing heated as Daren didn't answer him or appear. “Daren!”

Daren stood up, looming above Skye as he did, chuckling, despite his pain, at her audible gulp at seeing how big he actually was. She tried kneeing him again, but Daren blocked it with his hands and elbowed Skye sharply in the gut, driving all of the air out of her lungs and leaving black, flashing spots in her eyes and her still throbbing head spinning. Grabbing the front of her shirt, Daren snapped Skye off the wall and took a step back.

“Aye, right here, Berg!” He finally called out to him, who had kept shouting for him. “Looks like we have a little sneak.” His laugh was raspy as he shoved Skye backwards into the room.

Tripping over her feet, Skye fell backwards and hit her head on the slate, gasping with pain and getting more spots in her eyes. Geralt was leaning his shoulder against the brick wall, trying to take advantage of Berg's pause in beating him to catch his breath and prepare himself for whatever else the guard was going to treat him too. But, looked up, when the deputy finally answered Berg and shoved in what had been keeping him so long. He felt his stomach give out, seeing Skye roughly shoved into the room and the sick smack of her head hitting the ground, his mouth hung open as he stared at her, shocked to see her there, and in such a sorry state. She had blood caked into her hair and drying down the side of her face, and covered in cuts and painful looking bruises.

“Her again!” Berg barked, stepping up to the cell bars, to get a closer look at Skye.

“Again?” Daren frowned at his boss.

“Yeah, she was in the square, when the Witcher was on his spree.” He explained, jabbing a thumb behind him to Geralt. “She even tried stopping him from beating Kobus. Ended up taking most of it herself.” He chuckled, amused.

Geralt's eyes flared with shock, hearing that Skye had tried getting between him and the Pawnbroker, realizing that several of her wounds and marks were from him, and that he hadn't dreamed of her calling his name, she had actually done so.

“What is your business with this harlot, Witcher?” Berg asked, turning back to Geralt, then saw the look on the Witcher's face. “Oh, you _know_ her.”

Geralt's face went stony instantly, trying to guard against anything Berg could use with his and Skye's connection, to further harm him, and ultimately, Skye. But, it was too late, Berg had seen the expression on Geralt's face and in his golden eyes. The two guards took infinite amusement out of this new development, glancing at Skye and Geralt, than at each other. Berg leaned down and picked up Geralt's chain again.

“A Witcher with feelings.” He mused, a sick and sinister grin on his bearded face. “How sweet. I wonder how much he feels, Daren.” He inquired of his partner.

“We could find out.” Daren smirked, understanding Berg's hint as he leaned over Skye, who was starting to come back around, having momentarily lost consciousness.

Daren moved around to Skye and drove the blunt and rounded tip of his worn boot into her ribs, causing her to cry out and roll onto her other side, curling up to try and protect herself, tears rolling down her cheeks. Geralt jerked against his shackles and Berg, instinctively trying to get to Skye, despite a locked cell door between them, halting his progress to protect her.

Laughing, Berg slowly reeled Geralt in by his chain. “What is vile..” He pulled the chain in faster. “deviant and repulsive?” He asked, suddenly yanking Geralt forward and punching him across the face, sending Geralt spiraling backwards and to his knees, facing Skye.

“A Witcher without a nose.” He laughed, taking great pleasure in the tandem torture.

Geralt gulped down the thick saliva in his mouth, swaying back and forth on his knees, blood dripping from a split lip and a gash just below one of his eyes. He struggled to keep his eyes open, his vision fuzzy as he helplessly watched Daren continue to assault Skye. She whimpered as another boot tip connected to her spine and kidneys, trying to curl up and protect herself the best she possibly could. But, Daren wasn't having any of it, he straddled Skye's body, grasping her by the shoulder and pressed her down onto her back, forcing her to uncurl with a blinding slap across the cheek, that made her ears ring and left a bloody split across her bottom lip.

Skye shook her head, trying to relieve some of the agonizing pain in her face and head. Daren started to strike her again, when she pulled her knees up towards her shoulders and kicked out both feet at the same time, connecting to his chest and sent him flying backwards into the wall behind him and down to his hands and knees. Geralt couldn't help the smirk on his face, the pride he felt, as Skye defended herself, but it was short lived, when Berg rammed his foot into Geralt's back knocking him flat to the ground, groaning as he again went face first.

“Is that your little whore, Witcher?” Berg rasped, pressing his heel down on the back of Geralt's neck. “How much you must have paid her, that she'd follow you so far and want to try and rescue you.” He taunted him, stomping on Geralt's back.

“She must be good in bed.”

“Not when I finish with her.” Daren growled, using a bench against the wall to pull himself back onto his feet.

Skye was laying splayed on the floor, trying to recover herself, as Daren got up and advanced on her. She looked up at the domed stone ceiling, trying to muster any amount of energy to fight back and defend herself against whatever it was the Redanian guard had in his mind. Geralt shuffled and carefully pushed himself back up onto his knees, spent and battered from everything he had been through since finding the djinn in the Rinde lake, from heartbreak, to almost killing Jaskier, who he hadn't seen since the mage, Yennefer, had healed him and managed to get control of Geralt's mind, to send him on a rampage to avenge and payback the people that had tied to ruin whatever plans she had going. Now, there was Skye, the biggest surprise since he arrived in Rinde three days before, laying out on the floor as bloody and exhausted as he was. His fear spiked seeing Daren advance on her, grabbing her by the ankles and yanking her to him so hard, her arms went over her head, the rough flooring scratching up her back as her shirt rode up.

“This is it, Witcher.” Berg said, out of breath as he stood behind Geralt, pulling a long club from his belt.

Daren leaned over Skye and wrapped his hands around her throat, she gurgled and choked around his broad and meaty palms, gripping and clawing at his wrists and arms, feet pathetically flailing between his wide spread and planted legs. Geralt watched her face start to change colors, a white-hot anger broiled up inside of him, tensing up and swelling his already massive and thickly muscular body, angry at the audacity of Daren to put his hands on Skye, furious that he couldn't get to him and snap his measly neck and save Skye, before it was too late.

“Any last words, Witcher?” Berg asked, slapping the club in his palm, smugly. “Make them good.” He chuckled.

Geralt growled deep in his throat and chest, hands squeezing into fists as he rested back on his heels. “I want you to burst, you son of a whore.” He hissed, roughly.

An unnatural breeze stirred up in the otherwise stagnant cell and Berg's back stiffened, his mouth falling open and his stone-blue eyes bulged out of their sockets. With a look of terrified shock and horror on his face, the pressure inside Berg's head expanded, until it popped like a water balloon, spraying blood and matter on the walls and the side of poor Chireadan's face as he stood there behind him, watching all the events with a dumbfounded and helpless shock. Chireadan blinked several times, trying to keep himself together as he felt the warm blood, skull bits and brain matter slide down the side of his face and neck, an eye watering lump of hot nausea rising up in his gullet, but he managed to shove it down and keep himself from fainting.

“You--” He shook his head and gulped down the persistent nausea again. “You are the-the one with the...wishes.” He said, around the lump fighting to get out of his throat.

Geralt's mouth hung open as he yanked up the black sleeve of his shirt, seeing an identical cut on his forearm above the first one. He realized now, that whoever removed the seal from the amphora, was the person that had control over the djinn. That the first cut to his forearm was caused by him, angrily, telling Jaskier that he had just wanted some peace, he had caused the djinn to magically attack Jaskier's throat, to shut up him and grant Geralt's wish of peace. The same for the second cut and the popping of Berg's head.

His head and eyes snapped up, seeing Skye still trapped underneath Daren, who had only applied more pressure to her throat in his rage for Berg's strange and sudden death. “The keys!” Geralt barked, spinning around on his knees towards Berg's body, looking for keys.

Chireadan's eyes panned over Berg's body, until he remembered. “He doesn't have the keys.” The Elf told Geralt, frantic as Skye's struggle started to fade. “He has them!” He gasped, pointing to Daren with his bound hands.

Geralt shot a look at Daren and Skye, her face and lips starting to go blue and her hands weakly wrapped around his wrists, starting to slip away from them. She was fading quickly and if Geralt didn't act even faster, she'd be dead in a minute. He looked down at his arm, at the thin bloody scratches on his thick forearm and realized what he had to do, so he cleared his dry throat.

“I wish,” He whispered, and the djinn's wind kicked up again around them, as he mumbled the wish out, too quiet for Chireadan to hear.

Then, suddenly, Skye's minty-green eyes flew open and she took a deep, wheezy breath around Daren's iron grasp. She squirmed against him for a moment, before letting go of his wrist with one hand and reached for her ankle as she brought a foot up, her hand wrapping around the handle of her father's dagger, having forgotten she had the weapon strapped to her ankle and calf. Yanking the blade free from its sheath, Skye gripped the hilt tightly, raised it, then plunged it into his back, slipping the sharp tip between two of his ribs and into his kidney. Daren instantly released her throat, allowing Skye to gasp for several more lungfuls of air, the color slowly returning to her face and lips.

“Skye.” Geralt let out a soft breath of relief, almost bringing tears to his eyes.

But, the war wasn't over yet.

Skye had yanked the dagger free as Daren stumbled away from her, howling with pain and anger, then started at her again. But, Sky brought her knees up, catching Daren as he started to fall on her, bracing the pummel of the dagger against her chest and letting Daren fall on it, the tip piercing through his chest, killing him, finally.

“Fuck.” Skye huffed in a weak and rough voice, swallowing down thick saliva as she tipped to one side to get Daren off the top of her, then laid there for a few minutes, dizzy, falling in and out of consciousness as her whole body, inside and out, throbbed and bleed.

“Skye.” Geralt called to her louder, frightened as he watched her lay on her side, facing away from him, terrified that she was dead, but gasped, hearing her pained groan. “Skye!”

Fighting off another wave that threatened her to lose consciousness, she rolled onto her back, and laid there for a long moment, then struggled to sit herself up, holding her head in her hands once she managed that.

“Geralt.” She whined, looking over at him, warmed to see his relieved smile, but was too battered to return it.

Sighing, Skye snatched the cell keys from Daren's belt with numb fingers, then pulling herself to her feet, staggering and widening her stance for a few minutes to keep herself upright, then moved to unlock the cell door.

“Here, here.” Chireadan offered, seeing Skye struggle to work the key into the lock, and reached through the bars to open it.

“Thanks.” Skye sighed, clearing her throat and shaking her head, trying to keep her eyes open.

“Skye!” Geralt called out, as the shackles around his wrists fell free, and quickly moved forward. “Gods, Skye.” He panted heavily, wrapping an arm around her swaying hips, steadying her. “What the fuck were you thinking, coming after me?” He chided her softly and meaninglessly.

Skye didn't answer for a moment, she just leaned in against him, the solid warmth of his body and his scent filling her bloody nose had a strong effect on her, her struggle against staying conscious vanished and she was alert and clear headed. That's when she yanked her body out of Geralt's arms and looked up at him, furious and boiling with rage.

“What was _I_ thinking?” She shouted at him. “What was I thinking! What the hell were you thinking!? Leaving me like that!”

“I was--” Geralt tried to explain himself.

“You were what!?” Skye barked at him, her voice echoing and amplified. “Being a pig-headed lout! Abandoning me like some sort of wounded animal that you didn't have the bloody heart to put out of its misery!” She continued to berate him, suddenly striking him in the chest, in her fit of rage.

“Sk-” He tried to get a word in, his shoulders slumping.

“I hate you!” She hissed and punched him in the chest again. “I hate you, I hate you, _I hate you_ , Geralt.” She howled, her anger losing out to her anguish, her punches growing weaker and feeble.

Geralt gripped her wrists and pulled her against him again, resting her head against his chest and cradled the back of her head. “I know.” He whispered into her dirty hair. “I know, Skye. I know.”

She sobbed into his chest, depleted and done, her hands gripping the back of the leather shirt he wore. “I came..” She choked and wiped her nose on her bloody sleeve. “I came...because..” Her mouth worked for a moment, tears making her face even more of a bloody mess.

“I-I..I l-love..you, Geralt.” She sighed, going slack against him.

Geralt squeezed his eyes shut, burying his nose into her hair and nuzzling the top of her head, a thick lump in his throat. “I-I..” He folded his arms around her, squeezing despite the agony both of their bodies were in.

“I love you too, Skye.”


	6. VI

Chireadan stood there, having unlocked his own shackles, and watched as Skye chewed Geralt out, only to lose her luster and slump against him for support. He let his eyes wander as they hugged and finally told each other they loved one another, trying to give the two as much privacy as he could, before pointing out the obvious to them.

“You do know, we are standing in a room with two dead bodies,” He said, delicately. “And your Bard friend is still with the mage.” He also added.

“Bard? Mage?” Skye frowned, tipping her pulsing head back to look up at Geralt.

“I met a Bard, Jaskier, on my travels, while we _parted_.” He explained to her, gently brushing a bloody mat of hair out of her face and frowning at the ugly gash on her hairline, that still bleed slightly. “He wouldn't fuck off, so..” He rolled his eyes to get the rest of the story across.

“And the mage?” She asked, blinking at him.

Geralt let out a heavy and hard sigh. “It's a lot to explain, just now.” He told her, exhausted as he cupped her neck and caressed her bruised jawline with his thumbs. “Right now, I need to go and check on Jaskier, he's still with the mage that mind controlled me.”

“Is he in danger?” Skye asked, worried for the Bard.

“He was already in danger when I took him to Yennefer.” Geralt sighed, leaning his head forward, the Skye's scent sending waves through his body.

“Then, let's go.” Skye replied, but didn't move, she wasn't going to let Geralt out of her sight again.

Geralt paused as well, an electric energy pulsing between them for a short moment, before dipping his head and capturing Skye's lips with his own, kissing her deep and soundly. The kiss was sweet and metallic, the taste of blood from Skye's split lip, but neither of them cared, as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her screaming body against his. Geralt's hands slipped from her neck and locked his arms around her waist, straightening his back some that she had to stand on the very tip of her toes or dangle from around his neck. Chireadan's shoulders dropped as he watched Skye and Geralt kiss, tongues swirling and lips locked into a desperate battle to reconnect them together. He shook his head as they ate each other's faces, cursing his luck of the last two days since meeting the Witcher.

“Mmhmm!” He huffed, clearing his throat loudly.

Skye broke the kiss first and looked over at the Elf healer, lifting a brow at him, unapologetic about her and Geralt's behavior towards each other. “Who are you?” She asked, shaking her head at him.

“Chireadan of Rinde, I am a healer.” He replied to her, extending his hand to her.

“Skye of Dorian.” She returned, politely shaking his hand.

“Can you walk?” Geralt asked, hands resting on Skye's shoulders and looking her over.

“I should be.” Skye nodded, her legs felt a bit wobbly, but she was steady on them.

“All right.” He nodded and kissed her one more time, unable to help himself, took her hand, in case her legs did end up giving out, then led her and Chireadan out of the jail.

Skye and Chireadan followed Geralt through the Rinde streets, several people giving the small group looks as they went by them, but they ignored the stares and headed towards the home of Mayor Beau Berrant, where the mage Yennefer and Jaskier were. They didn't knock as they entered the house and climbed upstairs towards the master bedroom, finding Yennefer holding a knife to Jaskier's throat and grasping him through the fabric of his trousers.

“Yennefer!” Geralt roared, stepping into the bedroom.

“Ah, Geralt.” Yennefer grinned, looking at him over her shoulder. “Have a nice nap?”

“Not exactly.” He hissed back, tense. “Let the Bard go.”

“Not until the Bard gives his last wish.”

“Jaskier didn't have the wishes, I did.” Geralt informed her with a sigh.

Yennefer blinked at Geralt, mouth slightly agape as she turned towards him. “You? You're the djinn's master?”

“I was.” He nodded, solemnly. “But, I've spent all my wishes, the djinn is gone.”

“On what!?” She hissed at him, enraged that her plan to capture the djinn and use it for her own means had slipped through her fingers.

“It doesn't matter.” Geralt replied, shaking his head. “He caused me nearly no end of trouble. I thank you for curing Jaskier, and I am sorry about all of the trouble you've been caused.” He told her, nodding his head to her politely, then started for the door.

“Where are you going?” Yennefer hissed at him.

“I have someone that needs my care and attention.” He told her, pausing for a moment, if Skye hadn't been in his life, Geralt might have tried to start something with the mage. “Good-bye, Yennefer.” He bid her and left.

“Skye, this is Jaskier.” He said, meeting them in the hall. “Jaskier, this is Skye.”

“And how do the pair of you know each other?” the Bard asked, looking between Skye and Geralt.

“I _was_ Geralt's Law of Surprise.” Skye answered him, lifting a brow at Geralt.

“ _That_ is a story left until much later.” Geralt put in before Skye could start telling Jaskier the story, knowing full well it was going to end up as a song or poem in the hours that followed. “For now, I want to take Skye elsewhere and tend to her.”

“ _Tend_ to me.” She replied, giving him a stern look, but amusement danced in her minty eyes.

“Come along.” He smiled at her, brushing his thumb over her cheek and going back downstairs.

Geralt got them a room in the tavern that Chireadan's cousin owned and reserved the large tub that the tavern had. He disrobed and stepped into the hot and steaming tub, sitting on the bench built into it and resting his back against the edge, elbows propped on the lip and hand lazily swishing around in the sandalwood infused water. His mind was distracted and plagued by all the recent event, from falling for Skye, then hoping to do the right thing by leaving her behind on her family's farm, hoping that life would be better than one he could give her, only to hurt her greatly, and nearly losing her, when she came after him. Then, meeting Jaskier and having a similar outcome, nearly killing the Bard to try and selfishly relieve himself of heartache.

So distracted by his own thoughts and emotions, Geralt didn't hear the creak of the bath house door opening.

“You owe me, you know.” Skye's voice called softly to him.

Blinking his thoughts away, Geralt turned his head and looked over at Skye. “Owe you?” He echoed back, his eyes wondering over the simple chemise gown she was wearing, otherwise being barefoot and naked underneath.

“For what?” He rasped, turning his head away from her.

“I saved your life.” She told him, moving closer to the tub.

Geralt smirked at her words. “ _You_ saved _my_ life?” He glanced back at her, entertained.

“They were going to _hang_ you in the morning.” Skye pointed, dipping her hand into the pleasantly warm water and splashed him.

“They wouldn't have.”

“Oh, so whilst getting your ass beat by Berg, you had everything under control and an escape plan?” She asked, walking around the tub.

“Hm.” Geralt grunted, watching her poke a hole in his attempt to brush what happened off, but still amused.

“I didn't think so.” Skye chuckled, stopping on the other side of the tub from him.

“So, what do you want for saving my life?” He asked, lifting a brow at her.

“The Law of Surprise.”

“The Law of Surprise?” Geralt echoed back and blinked at her. “There's nothing I can give you through the Law of Surprise, for I have nothing surprising to give you.”

“Hm.” Skye hummed, hands going to the lace tie at the neck of her chemise and tugged the knot free, letting the soft cotton garment slipped off of her body and pool to the stone floor at her feet.

Geralt's eyes widened and his brows shot up, seeing her naked body for the first time. He licked his lips and rubbed them together as Skye stepped around to the small set of steps that lead into the tub and slowly stepped in with him, letting out a soft moan as the warm water engulfed her tired and battered body, easing her swollen, black and blue limbs as she eased herself onto the bench in front of Geralt, whose eyes never left her. Geralt's body tingled to reach out and touch her, to feel her bare skin, unburdened by her clothing.

“There is something that you, surprisingly, do have.” Skye said, drawing wet shapes on the rim of the tub, slightly too shy to meet Geralt's eye.

“And what would that be?” He asked, leaning his elbows forward on his knees.

Skye finally met his eye, her expression soft. “A heart.”

Geralt blinked at her several times, then slowly smiled at her, reaching out and grabbing the back of her knees, then pulled her to him, settling her between his spread legs. “I do not have a heart to give.” He told her, his palms gliding up and down the outside of her thighs, kneading her hips and the small of her back, massaging some of the stiffness away.

“For you already have it.” He whispered, a hand coming out of the water to cup the side of her neck and pulling her forward, capturing her lips.

Skye leaned into Geralt, carding her fingers through his hair as they kissed, relaxing under his touch and the warm water soaking farther into her body. Geralt's fingertips trailed up and down her spine, tangling in her hair. The hand caressing her back sailed over her side, teasing the curve of her breast for a moment, before soothing down her lean stomach and between her legs, making her gasp as his blunt fingertips rubbed the very edge of her clit, the muscles of her thighs and stomach twitching at the amazing feeling. She moaned into his mouth, squeezing his shoulders, and tried shifting her hips so he would touch her more, but Geralt only let up, keeping his touch at the very edge.

“I've waited too long for it to be this easy.” He rumbled against her lips, opening his eyes to meet hers.

“Are you saying I'm easy?” Skye chuckled, biting her lip and whimpering again as he applied a teeny bit more pressure.

“There is _nothing_ easy about you, me minne.” He replied, his eyes darkening to a warm ocher.

A smile tugged at the corners of Skye's lips, rubbing them gently against his. “That's nice to know.” She cooed back, squeezing the back of his arms.

Geralt slowly licked his lips, fingertips slipping down a little bit more to fully rub her clit and smirked feeling her quiver and melt under his touch and attention, not pulling his fingers away when she rocked against them, desperate from more. Geralt yielded to her desire and need, slipping a finger between her folds and touched her clit, uninhibited, before slipping his finger further, teasing her slick entrance, rimming the very edge of it, and chuckled at her impatient and needy whimper; nudging against his hand.

“Geralt.” Skye whined, when he removed his hand.

“Ssshh.” He smirked, wrapping his arms around her torso and picked her up, seating her in his lap, her legs loosely wrapped around his waist, then slipped his hand down her back, gliding over the globe of her ass, gripping one cheek in a firm grasp, before bringing his finger back to her entrance, still only teasing it.

Skye pressed her lips to his damp skin, her lips following the thick raise of a scar, at the junction that connected his arm to the top of his shoulder. “Where did you get this?” She asked, placing a tender kiss to it, feeling the firm scar tissue under the puckered and pale skin.

“Hmm.” Geralt rumbled and sighed, nibbling on her lobe. “A cockatrice.” He whispered softly into the cove her ear.

“And this one?” She inquired, touching a scar on the backside of his other shoulder, a series of small and puckered dots in a thumbnail shape, a bite mark.

“Bruxa.” He answered, tugging gently on the helix of her ear, then pressed his lips to the spot just behind her ear, kissing his way down her jugular and lightly nibbling and sucking on it.

“What was your first scar?” She asked, licking her lips and feeling the nervous knot in her stomach tighten, as the tip of his finger started to slowly penetrate her core. “From a monster, I mean.”

Geralt sat back, his eyes half lidded and glazed over as he took her hand in his free one and brought it to his right side, tracing her fingertips over a long and almost inch thick scar that ran from his eighth rib to just under his pectoral. She looked down at the jagged and raised skin, there were a couple of straight vertical scars that crossed it, making her frown.

“It became badly infected in the places they mark.” He answered before she asked, he'd been asked about his scars a billion times before, so he expected them. “So, they had to make incisions to clean out the pus and abscess.” He explained to her, his finger pressing ever deeper inside of her.

“What about this one?” She asked, cupping his face and neck to tip his head slightly forward and kiss the triangular scar on his forehead.

“That,” He chuckled, absentmindedly touching in. “was Lambert.” He smirked, rubbing at it. “He hit me with the pommel of his sword in a fit of rage, when I refused to share a whor--” He froze and licked his lip. “When I refused to share something with him.” He said, clearing his throat and coloring slightly.

“Rude.” Skye remarked, gulping as she felt Geralt's finger settle completely inside of her.

Some of the daze in Geralt's eyes cleared up, the sound of her pound heart finally registering in his ears and mind. His own heart started to pound, seeing the shy and nervous glint in her eyes, despite darkening to a lusty shamrock-green, he could see what he had missed as they started being intimate and he had failed to communicate beforehand.

“You're a virgin.” He said softly, blinking at her and brushing his fingers through her dirty, raven-black hair.

Skye gulped, biting her lip and nodded. “I am.” She whimpered, her hips rolling against his finger. “I've touched myself before, but I've never _lain_ with anyone.” She admitted reluctantly, she didn't want him to stop.

Geralt nodded slowly, gently rubbing the pad of his thumb against her clit and leaned forward, kissing her throat, then her lips, nuzzling her face with his. “I'll be gentle then.” He cooed quietly, resting his forehead against hers. “I don't want to hurt you anymore than I already have.”

“I trust you, Geralt.” Skye murmured back, rubbing her nose against his.

“Good.” He whispered, still thumbing her clit and felt her grow wetter around his stilled finger inside her core.

Being surprisingly gentle, Geralt slowly started to finger Skye, crooking his finger and smirked when Skye gasped loudly and threw her head back, after he had found her sweet spot. Skye gripped Geralt's shoulders, her eyes falling shut as he added a second, she enjoyed the fusion of his strong fingers working inside of her core. Geralt smiled against her collarbone, his lips grazing her skin and stubble leaving a tickled redness in their wake. He worked his thick fingers, curling one finger into Skye's sweet spot and sent her teetering towards the edge of orgasming, before removing them completely, much to Skye's protesting whimper. Geralt hooked his arm under her and lifted her up, like she weighed less than air, and slipped his free hand beneath her, gripping himself firmly and giving himself a few pumps, before lining up his tip and slowly lowered Skye back down. He nudged his forehead against hers, feeling the head of his cock slip between her folds and ease into the sensitive ring of muscle at the entrance of her core.

“Fuck, you're thick.” Skye moaned, the stretch of his shaft just on the edge of being comfortable.

Geralt chuckled, pressing his lips to the pounding pulse in her neck, sinking his teeth into it, with a couple of firm sucks and flicks of his tongue. Skye was left panting by the time Geralt was fully inside of her, barely hanging onto the edge of orgasming. He pulled back a little bit and met her eyes, his thumb brushing the apple of her flushed cheek and smiled at her, a pleased contentment in his stomach.

“You are beautiful.” He said softly, pressing a sweet kiss to her chin.

“I am a bloody and bruised mess.” She chuckled, rolling her hips to feel him move inside of her.

“That's me, ninety percent of the time.” Geralt snickered, gripping her hips and pressed up into her.

“Oh gods.” Skye gasped, feeling the firm head of Geralt's cock drive home into her cervix. “I've never felt anything like that.” She mewled and whimpered.

“With those little fingers.” Geralt teased her, grabbing one of her hands in his and gently rolled the tip of her index finger between his thumb and middle finger. “I doubt you can reach.”

Skye dropped her forehead to Geralt's shoulder, blushing like mad, as they worked together. They made small waves in the cooling water as they moved together, driving Geralt into Skye's cervix with each one. She moaned loudly into Geralt's shoulder, unable to hold on any longer, and came hard around him, muffling herself and sinking her teeth into his skin, making Geralt growl deep in his throat and thrust sharply, in response. Skye threw her head back and cried out as he speared into her quaking core, driving even more pleasure into her wrecked and exhausted body.

“Geralt.” She moaned, out of breath, and trembling in his lap. “Gods, you feel so good.” She sighed, licking her lips and carding her fingers through his hair.

Geralt smiled at her, pulling her into a deep kiss and increased his thrusts on the threshold of coming himself, deep inside of her. Skye moaned into their kiss, feeling the sudden tension in Geralt's body, the sudden and strong pulse and twitch of his cock as his heart started to pound, tipping him into the point of no return, a warmth built in her core and pressed against her cervix, before she finally felt the wet pressure release inside of her, like several quick shots, then a hot flood as he filled her up with his come. Geralt rested his forehead against her shoulder, panting heavily against her collarbone as his orgasm started to fade and his softened inside of her.

“I'm sorry.” Geralt whispered a little while later, watching Skye pick up a sponge from a little table at the edge of the tub.

Skye looked over her shoulder at him, with a frown and lifted brow. “For?” She asked, taking the sponge and soap, then sitting back again.

“These.” He replied, touching the bruised hand prints where he grabbed her by the arms, the jagged cut along her hairline, still crusted with dry blood, and that will no doubt scar, from him shoving her into a host of shelves in the Pawnbroker's.

“It's fine, Geralt.” Skye assured him, touching his wrist as his fingers brushed the gash. “You weren't yourself.” She told him, gingerly poking at her split lip with the tip of her tongue.

“I've done nearly nothing, but hurt you, since we've met.” He fussed, wincing at the ugly bruises on her ribs from the boot kicks delivered by Berg's deputy, Daren.

“You didn't hurt me when we were traveling to Kaer Morhen.” Skye reminded him, carefully rubbing the soapy sponge over her chest and sides, biting the inside corner of her lip as she did.

“I wasn't very nice to you, either.”

“To be honest, I was rather rude and childish towards you.” She chuckled, smirking at him, embarrassed by her previous behavior towards Geralt. “So, we evened that score.”

“I suppose.” Geralt smiled, reluctantly, and took the sponge from her.

Skye wet her hair and took up the comb on the little table and carefully un-matted her raven-black tresses, whimpering at how sensitive and tender her scalp was. Washing and rinsing her hair, Skye stepped out of the tub, taking up one of the fluffy towels that were supplied for the bathroom and took her time in drying off, before slipping her chemise back on, tying the ribbons closed to secure it, while she watched Geralt wash and comb out his own hair, which she couldn't recall if she had ever seen him do before; she was quite surprised at how white it actually was.

“What?” Geralt frowned at her, as he got out to dry off.

“Just thinking that, I don't know, if I've ever seen you wash your hair before.” She commented, cheeks slightly warm.

“Hm.” He hummed, rubbing the towel across his chest. “I have, you've just been asleep or elsewhere.” He told her, bending down to pick up his trousers. “I was more than sure you didn't want to see my naked Witcher ass, while we were traveling up to Kaer Morhen.”

“I wouldn't have, and how the hell do you bathe in freezing spring water in the early mornings or late nights, is beyond me.” She chuckled, shaking her head and shivering at the thought.

“I'm quite used to it, so I don't really feel it.” He explained, slipping his shirt on and opening a couple of the buttons, but the faint smirk on his lips gave away that he did feel the icy water. “Are you hungry?” He asked, holding the door open for her.

“I am.” Skye nodded, padding across the hall with her bare feet.

“I'll get us some supper and find a table.” He said, touching her hand for a moment.

Skye smiled at Geralt's back as he made for the tavern downstairs to get them both some food, if anyone had asked her almost six months before, if she found herself, not only _with_ , a Witcher, but in love with one, Skye would have openly, and heartily, laughed in that person's face, to the fault of being boorish and rude. But, here she was, pining after the infamous Witcher, Geralt of Rivia, and she was more than all right with it. Chuckling to herself, Skye tiptoed up the stairs to their room and dressed in something a bit more appropriate to wear and joined Geralt down in the tap room.

“Oh, is Jaskier going to give a performance?” She asked, sitting down beside Geralt at a table near the roaring fireplace.

“He is.” Geralt nodded, sliding her plate in front of her.

“That's exciting.” Skye grinned, popping a bit of cheese into her mouth as she watched the Bard tune his lute and warm up his voice with some scales.

“He's worried he's lost his gift.” Geralt explained, his shoulder resting against hers as he leaned his mouth close to her ear.

“He's afraid he can't sing anymore?” She frowned, looking at him. “Why?”

“Well, since the Djinn attacked his throat and I took him to Yennefer, he hasn't tried to sing.”

Skye frowned and looked him in the eye. “A Djinn, like a genie?” She frowned, confused.

“Yes, I-” Geralt paused, then cleared his throat. “Later.” He sighed, patting her on the thigh and Jaskier, thankfully, started to sing

“ _At the end of the path  
I rest my weary feet  
At the end of the path  
My journey is complete_..”

Skye gently folded her arms on the table top, enchanted by the Bard's light and sweet voice, but he sounded forlorn.

“ _At the end of the path  
I rest my weary feet  
At the end of the path  
In quiet comfort we’ll meet_..”

“I've never heard this song before.” Geralt commented, quietly, enthralled by it as well.

“ _Weary wolf at the end of war  
Loves aloof are apart no more  
(White skies still shimmer)  
Weary wolf at the end of war  
(Wild eyes still flicker)  
Loves aloof are apart no more._”

“Sounds like he's singing about you, Geralt.” Skye replied, glancing at him.

“It does, doesn't it.” He answered, softly, meeting Jaskier's eye as he looked in their direction.

Jaskier gave Geralt a gentle smile, a quick wink and slight nod of his head, as if to confirm he was singing about the Wolf, like he had written the song some time ago, to sing when Geralt finally found his _love_ again. Giving his lute a shy strum, Jaskier changed up and started a new song, making Skye laugh and Geralt growl.

“ _That's my epic tale  
Our champion prevailed  
Defeated the villain  
Now pour him some ale!_”

“He has such an amazing voice.” Skye praised Jaskier, smiling at Geralt.

Geralt looked up at Jaskier as he started singing the _'Fishmonger's Daughter'_ , and nodded his head. He would admit only to Skye that Jaskier did indeed have an incredible voice; he had only been teasing the Bard about his _fillingless_ pie down by the lake.

“He does.”

Skye giggled, and hugged her arms around one of his, pressing her cheek to his shoulder and nuzzling his still damp and clean hair. It felt amazing to be with him again, especially after weeks of wishing to be, to touch and smell him again, to feel the safety he gave her. She felt like a cat, like she could just curl up into Geralt's lap and purr herself to sleep for hours on end. Geralt felt in the same sort of way, threading his fingers with hers as their hands rested on his thick thigh. He smiled at her and fed her a little bit of food off his plate.

“Sweet on your whore, Witcher.” A drunk, but jovial, voice laughed from the table near theirs.

Geralt squeezed Skye's hand, like that act alone could hold his temper and tongue at bay. Skye gripped his hand back, scooting closer to him, like she could trap his big body against the wall on the other side of him with her dainty one.

“He's just drunk, Geralt.” Skye whispered into his ear, rubbing his leg and trying to calm him. “Ignore him, me bleidd.”

A small shiver raced down Geralt's spine hearing her call him, _my wolf_. He met her eye from the corner of his, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, rubbing his thumb over her hand, and relaxed. She was right after all, the man was old and feeble, no threat to either of them.

“So, you two are sweet on each other.” Jaskier said, sliding into the chair across from them and drummed his knuckles on the table. “You never mentioned a young lady on our travels, Geralt.”

“For good reason.” Geralt rasped, lifting a brow at the Bard. “I didn't need you pestering me.”

“Where did you and Geralt meet?” Jaskier asked Skye, knowing he'd get very minimal details from the Witcher.

“The Law of Surprise.” Skye replied, softly, then looking at Geralt. “To a degree.” She was still wounded by his leaving her. “He saved my _father_ and--” She motioned to herself. “Tah-dah.”

“And you fell in love.” Jaskier summed up.

“Not until some time later.” Geralt answered, picking up his ale mug.

“More recently.” Skye added with a playful eye roll. “So, how did the pair of you meet?” She asked, snagging her own mug.

“I met Geralt in Upper Posada, I accompanied him to help defeat the Devil of Posada.” He explained, excited and animated. “Which is where the mighty tale of Geralt, _'Toss a Coin to Your Witcher'_ , is derived from! I've been following him around ever since.”

“Like a lost pup.” Geralt huffed around the rim of his mug.

Skye looked between Geralt and Jaskier, “How did the pair of you get into so much trouble?” She finally asked, both of them had tiptoed around the subject.

“ _That_ is purely on Geralt and the Djinn.” Jaskier said, leaning his elbows on the table and eyeballing Geralt, who continued to nurse his ale, keeping his mouth conveniently too occupied to speak. “Geralt came to Rinde to find a fabled--”

“It was real.” Geralt interrupted, finally setting his mug down.

“Oh yes, it was.” Jaskier nodded, growing heated. “He found an amphora with a wizard's seal on it, and in the process, my throat ends up being attacked by the Djinn and almost lost my life in the process.”

“I didn't know I was the one with the wishes, Jaskier.” Geralt argued, angered by his own guilt. “Had I known, I never would have said what I said that caused the damn thing to attack you. I just wanted some peace.” He rambled, tense. “I took you to Chireadan, then to Yennefer to save your life, and that nearly cost me, my own, and Skye's for that matter.”

“She's what you were running from!” Jaskier snapped, suddenly putting it all together. “You wanted the Djinn to make a wish about her, didn't you? To wish her away.”

“No!” Geralt hissed, almost lunging forward, stung to the quick to hear the words said out loud.

While Geralt was tense and on edge, Skye relaxed and gulped, looking at him with a hot hurt in the pit of her stomach, sending tingling needles rippling throughout her body.

“You were going to wish you never met me, weren't you?” She asked, so quietly, Geralt rather wished she had shouted it directly into his ear, instead.

Geralt sat back, his mouth hanging slightly open and his golden eyes saying it all. “Skye.” He whispered, feeling her hand slipping out of his as she stood up.

“It's been a hard _day_ ,” She said, looking at neither of them. “I'm going to go to bed.” She whispered, turning away from them and heading upstairs.

“Geralt--” Jaskier started, only for Geralt to cut him off with a wave of his hand.

Picking up his mug, Geralt downed what was left of it and left the table, heading outside, needing the fresh and chill air to calm and cool himself off.

An hour later, Geralt quietly opened the door to his and Skye's room, sure by the quiet, that Skye was asleep already. Sure enough, she was curled up on the right side of the bed and sound asleep, he stopped beside her and smiled softly, she looked so sweet and peaceful. Reaching down, he tenderly brushed a stray lock of hair off her forehead and tucked it behind her ear, chuckling at her sleepy whimper in response to his touch, turning her head to follow his fingertips. He carefully unfolded the blanket at the foot of the bed and covered her up, then hesitated, in the months they spent sharing a room, they had only shared a bed once. A part of Geralt screamed to take up his regular place on the floor, that she wouldn't want him sleeping beside her after learning his intention of wishing her away. But, a deeper, quieter, part of Geralt told him to lay with her, to hug her against his body, to keep her safe and warm, to feel her lithe body against his and allow himself that peace only her touch gave him.

Biting his lip, Geralt walked around to the other side of the bed, toed out of his boots and removed his shirt, wanting to feel her on his bare skin again, then carefully eased his large frame into bed with her, not wishing to wake her, she seemed, and was, so tired from everything she'd been through since he left her and they reunited. Settling on his side, behind her, Geralt carefully wiggled his arm beneath her, until he could curl it around her waist and slowly eased her back towards him, then hugged his other arm around her; nuzzling his nose and face into her hair, eyes falling shut as her warmth and scent encompassed him so completely.

Just like the first time they slept together, Geralt fell easily to sleep, but he dreamt this time, not of monsters or darkness, but of Skye.

– –

Skye took a deep breath and moaned softly, feeling the secure warmth of being wrapped up in Geralt's strong arms, her head resting on his bicep. She carefully untangled herself and turned to face him, seeing his relaxed face, the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. Carefully reaching out, Skye gently brushed a strand of his milky-white hair out of his face, her fingertips skimming over his cheek and brushed her thumb over his full bottom lip, then followed the edge of his nose.

“Good morning.” Geralt rasped in a sleepy voice.

“Morning.” Skye blushed, pulling her hand back. “Did you sleep well?” She asked, sitting up.

“I did.” He nodded, turning onto his back, and smiling softly at the pleasant dream he had about her during the night. “Did you?”

“Like a baby, for the first time in weeks.” She replied, combing her fingers through her hair, careful to avoid her wound. “So, Witcher, what do you want to do now?” She asked, looking over her shoulder at Geralt.

“Wherever _I_ go,” Geralt said, sitting up beside her. “I want _you_ to come with me.”

“Oh, no more wishes then?” Skye asked, narrowing her eyes at him.

Geralt sighed and rubbed his face, shaking his head. “I have no excuse for my behavior or thoughts on wanting to use the Djinn, other than hoping it would only be the best for you. The life of a Witcher is hard, grueling, long and dangerous, and not just because of the monsters I encounter.” He explained to her. “I thought that, if you didn't remember who I was, then you would find and fall in love with someone that could give you the life you want, and deserve.” He reasoned with her.

“Well, that's not the life I want.” Skye told him, picking at the blanket still covering her legs. “The life I _do_ want, is a life with you. Wherever you are, why ever you're there. That's where I want to be, and why I want to be there.”

“I understand that now.” Geralt whispered, taking her hand. “You wouldn't have tracked me as long as you did and risked your life to save mine, if you didn't.”

“So, I'll ask you again.” Skye said, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles. “What do you want to do now?”

“I was considering going up north, there's normally several contracts worth a good bit of gold in Malleore and Caingorn this time of the year.” He told her his plan, staring at their linked hands.

“All right then, let's go.” She answered, meeting his eye and smiling.

Smiling back and kissing her softly, Geralt got out of bed and they dressed, getting ready by pack their horses for the journey northward. Skye was giddy to get going, she had imagined traveling the Continent with Geralt through the long winter at Kaer Morhen and on their way to Dorian, even while she was chasing after him.

“I'm coming too!” Jaskier yelled, slinging his lute across his body and running up to Skye and Geralt in the stable.

“I figured you would be.” Geralt replied, rolling his eyes. “This is a good horse.” He added, patting Arthas's side as he examined the gelding.

“That he is.” Skye nodded, proud of him. “Where's yours, Jaskier?” She asked, looking around expectantly.

“I don't have one.” He replied, fussing with his boots.

“So, you _walk_ everywhere?” She frowned, blinking at him.

“Yep.”

“Well, why don't you ride Arthas and I'll ride with Geralt.” She offered, holding the reins out to him. “If Geralt doesn't have an issue?” She added, looking over at him.

“I don't, if that's what you want to do.” Geralt shook his head, pressing his lips together.

“I don't, I'd hate to have two horses while one of us walks.” Skye said, letting Jaskier take Arthas's lead.

“Thank you.” He smiled, gratefully and pulled himself up into Arthas's saddle.

Geralt got into Roach's saddle and boosted Skye in behind him, smiling as he felt her weight settle against his back and the hug of her arms around his waist. Skye smiled back, resting her chin on his shoulder to see his face.

“Now, I can keep a closer eye on you.” She teased him.

Geralt laughed, knowing that was going to turn into a little inside joke between them. “I won't be leaving anywhere without you again, me minne.” He assured her, patting her knee and nudging Roach forward.

– –

“Hey, Skye, you mind lending me a quick ear.” Jaskier called to her as she paced around.

“With?” She answered, looking at the other two men with them, standing uncomfortably close to Roach.

“I'm trying to piece together a new ballad, but I'm not sure about this stanza.” He told her, covertly trying to distract her until Geralt returned.

Sighing, Skye turned her attention to the Bard, who sat perched on a rock, one ankle crossed over a knee and lute resting comfortably in his lap. “Let me hear it.”

“Right.” Jaskier nodded and strummed the lute, clearing his throat, then started the stanza over.

“ _I'm weak my love, and I am wanting  
If this is the path I must trudge  
I welcome my sentence  
Give to you my penance  
Gorgeous garroter, jury and judge._”

His strumming faltered and his handsome face pinched.

“That sounds good, what's your problem with it?” She asked, tilting her head at him.

“I don't know if it should be gorgeous or lovely.” He explained to her, meeting her worried eye. “Is the analogy hitting or is it too cerebral?”

“Bit of both.” Skye replied, pressing her lips together. “Why don't you just make it _'garroter, jury and judge'_? Puts the point across and relieves your issue.” She suggested to him, lifting a brow in the direction Geralt had vanished, around a rock formation.

They were in Barefield, where Geralt received a contract to kill a Basilisk for a butcher and one of the town officials. She had wanted to go with Geralt to face the beast, but Geralt had adamantly refused to allow it, leaving her with Jaskier, Roach and Arthas, to go after the beast himself. He told the group he would be back in an hour, Skye told him if he wasn't back in that hour, then she would be going after him, to which he gave her a stern look and walked off. She paced the entire time, Jaskier worked on his ballad and the other two stood beside Roach, their gaze never leaving the path Geralt took towards the Basilisk's lair.

“Yeah, I like that idea.” Jaskier nodded, looking down at his lute, plucking at the strings and humming the song to himself.

“It's been an hour, let's go before the monster gets hungry again.” said one of the men, the butcher, to his companion.

“We promised to wait for the Witcher.” His friend answered, standing on his toes to try and see further down the trail.

“Well, there's no sense in hanging around to pay a dead one.” the Butcher huffed, reaching for Roach.

“Hey!” Skye snapped at him, resting her hand on the hilt of her sword, that never left her side nowadays.

“Yeah, hey! Uh, no no no no!” Jaskier chimed in, jumping up from his rock. “Put that back!” He snapped as the butcher removed Roach's bags.

“What are you two going to do?” The butcher chuckled, slinging Roach's saddlebags over his companion's shoulder. “Sing us to death and poke us with your sewing needle.” He mocked them.

Skye pulled her sword, but kept the point to the ground, not wishing to use it. “Put the bags down and no one will get hurt.” She warned them, holding out her hand for them.

“Look at her, thinking she might do us harm.” The butcher mocked her, smugly.

“Do as the lady and bard asked, and no one will get hurt.” A new voice said, and a moment later, a short, elderly man appeared with two tall and gorgeous women, their mocha and chocolate skin tatted with markings that gave them away as Zerrikanians.

“Or what, _old man_.” The butcher hissed at him, stepping closely.

“Or I'll be forced to use my weapons.” The old man replied, clasping a hand to his wrist in front of him, looking just as smug and confident as the butcher.

“I don't see any weapons on you.” the butcher barked, moving to shove the old man.

One of the Zerrikanians circled calmly behind the butcher, kicked his knees out from under him, then gracefully snapped his neck, his body sending up a cloud and shower of dust as it hit the ground.

“Steel won't be necessary.” The Zerrikanian said, looking the butcher's dead body over with disgust.

Skye and Jaskier blinked at each other, alarmed.

“Um, who are you?” Jaskier asked him, just as a Basilisk head dropped at the feet of the Butcher's companion.

“I believe those are mine.” Geralt growled, appearing off the trail.

Gulping, the man dropped Roach's bags, tossed Geralt the bag of coin and took off in the direction of town. Geralt caught the bag, one handed, then looked at the rest of the group, lifting a brow at Skye.

“They tried to make off with Roach's bags, then they-” She motioned to the old man and Zerrikanians. “showed up and snapped his neck.” She said, pointing the tip of her blade at the Butcher's body.

“Yeah, just for trying to steal stuff off of Roach.” Jaskier agreed with Skye. “Who are you?” He asked, looking back at them.

“I am Borch Three Jackdaws.” The old man replied, bowing politely to them. “And these are my companions, Téa and Véa.” He introduced the two warriors.

“What do you want?” Geralt asked, scooping up Roach's saddlebags and slung them back over mare's back, securing them.

“I've been looking for you, Geralt of Rivia.” Borch informed him, smiling triumphantly.

“Why?” Skye frowned at Borch, sheathing her weapon.

“Allow me to indulge you back at the inn, and I'll explain everything once we're there with some good food and plenty of ale.” Borch smiled, very polite and cordial.

Skye looked to Geralt, blinking, he held her eye for a moment then looked to Borch, regarding him. He didn't know what the old man wanted of him, no doubt a job or a contract to kill something, that was the only reason people sought him out. But, him, Skye and Jaskier were returning to Hengsfors, whether he decided to humor the old man and his escorts or not. Looking back to Skye, his brows drew together and he rolled his eyes towards Roach, with a soft nod.

“I'll listen to what you want, but don't expect me to agree.” He told Borch, pulling Skye into the saddle and turning back towards town.

“What do you think he wants?” Skye asked, leaning in against Geralt to speak into his ear.

“I don't know.” He replied, troubled. “A contract at the very least, but I am suspicious of something more.”

“Why?”

“He said he's been looking for me.” He explained, glancing around. “That means he's been traveling around, hoping to catch me.”

“Like, I did.” She pointed out, nodding her head.

“Something of the same.” Geralt agreed, glancing back at her. “We'll meet him at the Pensive Dragon, hear what he has to say and go from there.”

Skye nodded her head, concurring with him, then pressed her cheek to the back of his leather armor, she hadn't slept well the night before and the gentle motion of Roach's gait with the warmth of Geralt's body was a pleasant lull to her tired and sore body. Geralt chuckled at her peaceful moan, a smile tugging at his lips as he felt her slowly melt and grow heavy against his back. Hugging his legs tighter around Roach, wrapping Skye's arms around his waist and holding onto one of her hands, to make sure she didn't slip or fall off during her much needed nap.

“Have a nice doze?” He asked, feeling her stir, the sound of the town waking her as they passed through the gates.

“Hm.” She hummed back, nodding her head and wiping a bit of the drool off Geralt's armor. “Yeah, I kept dreaming that I had Elf ears and someone was yelling my name.”

Geralt frowned. “That's strange.”

“Quite.” Skye nodded, sliding down off Roach as they made it to the hitching post outside the Pensive Dragon inn. “Jaskier.” She nodded to the Bard as he tied Arthas to the hitching post.

“What do you think that Borch guy wants with Geralt?” Jaskier asked, standing close to her, while Geralt tied up Roach.

“I don't know.” Skye replied, glancing at Borch with the two Zerrikanians, while they stood at the door of the inn, waiting for them and Geralt. “I'm just afraid it'll be more dangerous than usual.” She told him, quietly.

“All right, Borch.” Geralt huffed, stopping in front of him. “What do you want?”

“I can't tell you how excited I am about this.” Borch grinned, pushing open the inn door and heading inside. “This is a first for me, and I have very few of them left.” He explained, talking with animated hands as the group navigated the crowded tap room, towards a large, unoccupied table. “To eat with _the_ White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia. You are a legend!”

“You're welcome!” Jaskier chimed in, shouldering his lute.

“Do you want to know why I've come looking for you.”

“Don't trouble yourself.” Geralt rasped, rudely shoving someone aside, so Skye could get to the table and take a seat. “We just want some food.”

“That's the first thing I liked about you.” Borch laughed, turning towards the barkeep. “One of everything and keep the ale flowing!” He yelled at him, then slipped onto a bench across from Geralt and Skye.

The Zerrikanians and Jaskier sat across from each other on the other side of Geralt, Skye and Borch; Jaskier eyeing the Zerrikanians like a love sick puppy finding his cure and purpose in life. Skye was sure the Bard was no doubt going to spin this into a song or poem by the day's end, though the Zerrikanians didn't seem taken by Jaskier's Bard enchantment, but that wouldn't stop Jaskier from trying his best to woo them.

“Secondly,” Borch continued as a barmaid set six tall and overflowing ales in front of everyone. “Not that long ago, across the border of King Niedamir's mountains, landed a green dragon.”

Geralt gave him a sharp look, frowning and picking up his ale.

“I know, Dragons sightings are rare, and mostly false.” Borch waved the look off, taking a swallow of his own ale. “But, it happened. The locals saw it and went in search of its hoard. But, they only wounded the dragon and pissed it off so royally, it set half a mountain side on fire.”

“Burnt and crispy sheep, _everywhere_.” He laughed, thoroughly amused at the idea.

“What's this have to do with me?” Geralt asked, chuckling and shaking his head.

Skye looked back at Jaskier and snorted at his ridiculous and over flamboyant attempts to woo and win over the ever unamused Zerrikanians.

“You have such a lovely neck.” He told Véa, pressing his hand to his cheek.

Téa and Véa looked at each other, then noticed Skye staring and glanced at her, but she only laughed harder; getting a teeny smirk out of Téa, in the process, before Jaskier continued on his poetic attempts to sway them.

“It's like a...a lovely— _goose_.”

Everyone at the table paused and looked at Jaskier.

“Gu—guzzling.” He whimpered, feeling his attempts fail more and more, and only getting more ridiculous as he tried, so he picked up his ale and tried to act as if he had said nothing.

“Anyway,” Borch roared, thoroughly amused by the attempts to sway the Zerrikanians, and turned back to Geralt. “The king is meant to marry a princess from Malleore, his rival. But, it's being threatened by the dragon, so he's set up a hunt to kill the creature. Five teams have signed on to do it, whatever team kills the dragon, and brings proof, gets the dragon's hoard and a lord title over one of his new vassal states.”

“Granted, that's if any of them survives to claim it.” He chuckled, ominously.

“Again,” Geralt sighed. “What does this have to do with me?”

“I want you to join my team.”

Geralt frowned and sipped at his ale for a few minutes, before setting it down and shaking his head. “You've sadly wasted your time, Borch. I don't kill dragons, you'll have to find someone else to help you.” He told him, finally.

“No treasure is worth dying for.”

Skye looked at Geralt and narrowed her eyes slightly, something Borch took an instant notice of, cocking his head at her for a moment.

“Depends on the treasure.” He replied, eyes still on Skye as he said it. “What I want is a new adventure, before I am too old to do anything else, but die.”

“Killing a dragon won't bring you that.” Geralt replied, dubious.

“All I know is, there's only one path up the mountain, and it's riddled with monsters.” Borch answered, trying to recapture some of the happiness and excitement he had when they entered the inn. “With a group like yours, we're bound to be unstoppable.”

“Someone get me a fuckin' drink!” A voice roared above the crowded hum of patrons. “Barman, barman!” A Dwarf barked, standing on top of his table.

“That group of Dwarves will be part of the hunt.” Borch said, pointing out the group of five Dwarves, two tables away.

“Geralt could fight them in his sleep.” Jaskier huffed, not impressed.

“Fuckin' right!” Another of the Dwarves, the leader of them, by the looks of it, barked, charging the bar counter, and clamoring on top of it, grabbing the barman by the shirt. “I said, I want four fuckin' pints, _now_!” He screamed, shaking the startled barkeep by the shirt and jabbing a stubby finger into his chest with each word.

“Got it?!”

“Ye-Yeah.” The barkeep nodded, trembling slightly.

“Or maybe a little awake.” Jaskier whimpered, startled.

“We also have the Reavers.” Téa said, looking over at a table surrounded by at least a dozen men in shabby clothing, their chins painted black and white. “Do you know them, Witcher?” She asked, looking back at Geralt.

“Yes.” He nodded at her, then looked to Borch. “The answer is still no.” He said, trying to make it abundantly clear.

“Where's the fourth and fifth teams?” Jaskier asked, tilting his head and glancing around.

“They're the fourth team.” Borch answered him, pointing behind him as a knight entered the tavern and followed by, with a shock and surprise, the mage, Yennefer.

“Oh great.” Jaskier complained, throwing his arms up. “Thanks for everything, the ale and the pies, but Geralt said no, so we should be on our way.” He babbled, downing the rest of his drink and shoving the last fourth of his pie into his mouth and started to stand up.

“That's the other team.” Borch continued, pointing to a table in a far, dimly lit corner. “They're almost as greedy as the Reavers. Timil and his son, Edic, with their companion, Lotus, make up the fifth team for the hunt.”

Skye turned in her seat to look at the fifth team, they were huddled around the smallest table in the inn, a single tallow candle melting into the middle of the table, more than half gone and throwing mysterious and eerie shadows on their faces, they almost appeared to be gremlins, the way the dull candle light illuminated their features. They felt her eyes on them and one of them turned his head towards her. Even in the terrible light, Skye could see his eyes, they were a rich, almost tumultuous, ocean-blue, with just the slightest flecks of seaweed-green near his iris, dancing, like waves, in the flicking candle flame. They looked hard, like he had seen far too many horrors in his life, but the corners of his lips were naturally perked up into a near permanent smile, like despite his hardships, he knew when he heard a good joke or story, and how to laugh at it.

His eyes hardened and narrowed before glancing away from her, bringing his attention back to his companion, who was speaking over a map, but the impression was left on Skye.

“You feel it, don't you?” Borch asked, turning his focus on her. “Just like me.”

Perhaps, if he couldn't get Geralt to concede and join him, he could convince his Destiny crossed lover into it, and like a domino, snag Geralt along with her.

“That scratch in the back of your mind, it burns your brain and you don't know how to stop it.” He said, leaning over the table towards her, making Geralt wrap a protective arm around her. “It's a hole inside of you, that you want to fill, but yet, don't know how.”

Skye felt her heart skip a beat as he spoke, and it started to pound, her body surging with a strange energy that wanted to get up at that very moment, march up that mountain and slay the dragon, single-handedly. She had a hole inside of her, she had felt it all her life, she thought she had filled it, but as Borch's words settled over her, like a heavy blanket, she realized, it had only been partially filled.

By Geralt.

“Come with me, and I'll show you how to fill it.”


	7. VII

“Skye?” Geralt whispered, his hand glided over her back, seeing the distant, lights out, look in her minty-green eyes. “What is it?” He leaned closer to her.

“What do you mean, I have a hole to fill?” She finally spoke, blinking several times, but her eyes remained distant.

“If you come with me, I'll show you.” Borch repeated, still smiling, mysteriously.

“Why can't you just tell her here?” Jaskier asked, putting down his mug, forgetting his melancholy.

“Because, Destiny is more of a journey, than a destination.” Borch replied, sitting back down.

Geralt's eyes never left Skye as Borch talked more about the hunt, ignoring every word that the old man said. “We'll talk about it, and tell you in the morning.” He said, standing up from the table abruptly, and trudging upstairs to their room.

The fog in Skye's brain finally cleared and she blinked after Geralt. “I'm sorry, he's just—I'm sorry.” She made excuses for him and followed after him. “Geralt!” She called as he made to slam the room door shut. “What--”

“What hole, Skye?” He barked, his hands clenched.

“I don't know!” She yelled back. “I knew there was a hole, but I thought you filled it, and you did.” She tried to reason with him. “To a point.” She added, softer.

“But, I don't know what it is that I need to fill it the rest of the way in.”

Geralt paced the room, like a caged wolf, huffing has his anger and jealousy raged in his body.

“Why are you acting like this, Geralt?” She begged him, grabbing his arm and forcing him to be still and meet her in the eyes. “Are you afri--”

“I fear nothing.” He hissed, but it was there in his eyes.

“Oh, Geralt.” She sighed, wrapping her arms around his waist and hugging him against her. “It's nothing that will take me from you, my wolf.”

“You don't know that, Skye.” He whispered, folding his arms around her and nosing her hair.

“I _do_ know that, Geralt.” She replied, nuzzling her cheek against his chest. “You are my heart's Destiny, and nothing can take your place there.”

Geralt relaxed and his agitation and jealousy faded. “I'm sorry for snapping at you.” He whispered into her ear, rubbing her back in firm circles.

“I forgive you.” She replied, smiling up at him.

– –

“I think we should go with them, Geralt.” She added, quietly, a little while later.

“Why?” He frowned, sitting on the edge of the bed, cleaning his sword.

“I want to find out what Borch was talking about.” Skye told him, honestly. “I don't want to kill a Dragon, I don't want to kill anything.”

“We wouldn't be killing the creature, no matter what.” Geralt remarked, shaking his head at the notion of slaying the green dragon.

“Even, if it was trying to kill us?” She teased him, playfully tossing her socks at his broad back.

“We can run.” He smirked at her over his shoulder.

“That bloody thing can fly, Geralt!” Skye huffed, faking offense. “Can _you_ outrun a flying Dragon?”

“I can.” He laughed, turning his sword over.

“A puck's ass!” Skye roared, holding her belly as she laughed.

“Ask Jaskier, next time you see him.”

“I will!” Her laughter dying down to a giggle. “But, I still want to go, Geralt.”

Geralt sighed, he had hoped to deter her from going on the hunt with Borch, but like himself, Skye was stubborn about something she wanted, and wouldn't take no for an answer. “All right.” He sighed again, staring at his reflection in the blade of his sword.

“We'll go with him.”

Skye launched across the bed, hitting Geralt like a brick wall, and wrapped her arms around his shoulder, kissing his neck. “Thank you, Geralt.”

“If you fall off the mountain, I'm going to be very cross with you.” He told her, turning his face into her cheek.

“I'll be cross with myself.” She chuckled, nuzzling him.

– –

“So, you decided to join us!” Borch roared, excited to see Skye, Geralt and Jaskier coming out of the inn to join them, where the horses were tied up.

“We are.” Geralt rasped roughly, he wasn't excited to be going up a mountain to face a dragon, but he wanted to make Skye happy, and deep down, to find out what Borch was talking about.

“Marvelous!”

Geralt grumbled, while Skye settled behind him on Roach, making her shake her head at the back of his, squeezing her thighs around his hips. “Hm.” He hummed, nudging his back against her chest.

“I'd say, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” Skye commented into his ear. “But, seeing as you woke up in the middle of the bed, with me on top of you and your cock firmly inside of me, there's not an excuse.”

“Sshh.” Geralt huffed, nudging her again.

“Now, the Witcher is self-conscious, how many nights have I cock warmed you, with Jaskier snoring less than two feet aw—ouch!” She yelped, when Geralt pinched her thigh.

“I'll tell you this now.” Borch's voice came up behind them, making Skye color. “The trail is too narrow for horses, so we'll have to walk. I hope that's all right with the three of you.” He said, his face was cheery, but his eyes gave away knowing what Skye and Geralt were up too.

“That's fine with me.” Skye said, half hiding her red face into Geralt's back.

“Me as well.” Jaskier chimed in, appearing on the other side of Borch.

Geralt nodded his head and grunted, his mind flitting to various things troubling him.

They rode for nearly three hours before arriving at the top of the path leading down into the valley, which then led upwards into the mountain. The King had sent some of his men to set up a place for the teams to leave their horses, and donkeys in the Dwarves' cases, then to have them looked after, while on the expedition. Geralt removed the mare's saddle and laid it over the hitching post Roach was tied to, Jaskier doing the same with Arthas. Skye stood at the head of the trail, following it as far as she could before wondering which of the mountain peaks housed the green dragon and its hoard, but turned feeling a pair of eyes on her, only to see it was one of the men from the night before, that made up the fifth hunting team, with the eerie blue-green eyes.

Skye narrowed her eyes at him, but his blank expression and burning eyes never changed. Shaking her head, Skye headed back towards Geralt, feeling uneasy with the way the man was staring at her.

“How is it, I've lived this long, without ever meeting a Witcher, then when I meet you, we keep running into each other?” Yennefer asked, approaching Geralt, Skye and Jaskier.

“Well, they are liable to run into witches, eventually.” Jaskier piped up, eyeballing her.

“Jaskier.” Yennefer huffed, eyeing him back.

“Yennefer.” He huffed back, narrowing his eyes.

“What are you doing here, Yennefer?” Geralt asked, glancing between her and Jaskier.

“I'm here with the noble Sir Eyck of Denesle.” She said, looking back over her shoulder to the knight in a suit of chainmail and plated armor.

“For Kingdom and Glory.” He hailed, holding his sword out towards the rising sun.

Skye and Geralt looked at each other and rolled their eyes, with faintly amused smirks on their faces, biting their cheeks to keep from laughing. Geralt's expression went blank as Yennefer looked back towards them, but Skye didn't hide her amusement from the Mage.

“Who are you?” Yennefer asked, looking Skye over.

“Skye of Dorian.” She replied, nodding her head politely to Yennefer, giving her a look over as well.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg.” Yen returned, licking her lips. “Another stray, Geralt?” She asked the Witcher, with a raised brow.

“No.” Geralt shook his head, annoyed at the notion.

“They're destined lovers.” Jaskier chimed in, looking smugly proud of the fact.

Skye had told Jaskier the full story of how she and Geralt had come to be, on their journey from Rinde to Tridam.

“How romantic.” Yennefer replied, sarcastically.

“Damn it to Korath!” One of the Dwarves roared, angrily.

“What's got your donkey?” Jaskier asked, looking over at him.

“Someone's stolen my pack.” the Dwarf hissed. “Probably one of those damned Reavers.” He sighed, eyeing the painted men. “Yarpen Zigrin.” He said, holding his hand out to Geralt.

“Geralt of Rivia.” Geralt replied, shaking his hand.

“Skye.” Skye returned with a polite smile, as he held his hand out to her next.

“And, I'm Julian Alfred Pan--”

“Aye, I know.” Yarpen brushed him off. “You'll get a pretty price, if you sell those two beasts now.” He teased, walking off with his group.

“Why does it seem like everyone wants to get their hands on Roach and Arthas these days?” Jaskier asked, frowning after the Dwarf.

“He means, we won't survive the journey.” Geralt replied, slinging his swords and bed roll over his back.

“What?” Jaskier squeaked, gulping.

Skye laughed and patted him on the chest. “Don't worry, Jask. I'll protect you.” She teased him, following after Geralt.

“Oh great.” He mumbled, jogging to catch up with them.

– –

Skye had moved to catch up to the Zerrikanians, allowing Geralt to speak with Borch outside of her hearing.

“What were you talking about, when you told Skye, you could show her how to fill this _hole_?” He asked, glancing over at her, hearing her laugh.

“Both of you, actually.” Borch replied, glancing at her as well. “But, her hole is a bit deeper than yours.” He explained, still being cryptic.

“That doesn't explain what you were talking about, Borch.” Geralt hissed, impatient with his roundabout talking, reminding him of the Wizard, Stregobor.

“There's something missing from both of your pasts and something yet to happen in your future, together.” Borch answered, grinning up at Geralt, seeing how annoyed and impatient the Witcher was getting with his riddles and vagueness.

“You don't like her being out of your sight, do you? Despite your attempt to keep out of hers.”

Geralt looked down at the short Human, eyes narrowing at him. “I just want to make sure she doesn't get into any trouble.” He answered, ignoring the last part of Borch's statement.

Borch laughed, “That girl has been trouble since before she left that farm with you, Witcher.” He commented, smiling at Skye's back.

“How do you know she lived on a farm?” Geralt demanded, becoming uneasy.

“Some of her mannerisms.” Borch explained. “You can't take the girl off the farm, but you can't take the farm out of the girl.” He laughed, amused by it.

They made camp that night, most of the parties sat around a single fire, minus the fifth team and the Reavers, though Boholt held no qualm about stealing food off their spit. He eyeballed everyone around the campfire, and smirked, chuckling at them.

“What's so amusing, you overgrown _cock_ hair?” Yarpen asked, scowling at the filthy Reaver.

“Just thinking about who I'm going to kill first, the Witch or the Witcher's _lover_.” He chuckled again, popping a bit of greasy meat into his mouth.

“Careful, Boholt.” Geralt growled, leaning his shoulder firmer against Skye's, protectively.

“You going to play white knight, Witcher?” He taunted Geralt, grinning at him.

“No, both of them are plenty able in killing you, themselves.” He replied, but still remained tense at Skye's side.

Boholt laughed and made his way back to his own group's campfire, leaving the people around Skye and Geralt's fire tense and quiet for several long moments, before the sound of Sir Eyck's stomach rumbling loudly and he groaned, leaning forward as his stomach started to turn on him.

“I told you, it wasn't wise to eat those berries.” Borch chuckled, watching Eyck's face go pale and twisted with pain.

Eyck stood up, well stood half bent over, his arms folded against his chainmail covered stomach as it continued to twist on him. “Lady Yennefer, shall I accompany you to your tent?” He asked, trying to take the attention off of himself.

“Will you be joining me?” She asked, touching his tense arm.

“I would never degrade your honor like that, my lady.”

Jaskier snorted at that from across the campfire. “I'm sorry to tell you, knight. But, that ship has set sail, wrecked and sank to the bottom of the ocean.” He commented, tossing bits of twigs into the fire, and not looking up.

Yennefer glared over at Jaskier as Eyck scrambled away, whimpering, as his stomach made more rumbling noises of discomfort. After finishing off the meat roasting over the fire and conversation about whether or not dragons, particularly gold dragons, were real or not, the group settled in for the night. Geralt laid his bed roll out the ground to put something between him, Skye and the pine needles strewn about under the canopy of the Evergreens, then laid down with her, cocooning her with his body and tucking her blanket around them. Even though it was a warm Spring night, the cold mountain air was settling in as darkness fell in around them. Allowing Skye to cushion her head on his arm as she snuggled back into him and the warmth of his body; Geralt's own head was pillowed by his armor and swords, half protecting them from theft, during the night.

– –

Skye groaned, brows farrowing as she felt her bladder demand emptying. Groaning again, she got up, making sure the blanket didn't uncover Geralt too much in her absence to find somewhere decent enough to relieve herself. Finding a good enough tree, Skye wiggled down her tight leather pants and squatted down, her back against the tree so nothing could try and sneak up on her. But, she heard the rustling of fallen leaves, branches and grass coming up towards her from the opposite direction of where she knew Geralt was sleeping and spun around to face it. She didn't see anything in the darkness up ahead, but she could still hear the rustle, a scuffle like noise, in the trees just beyond her scope of vision, before she finally saw someone.

“What are you doing?” She hissed at the man, Timil, Borch had said his name was. “Sneaking up on people in the middle of the night.”

“Your Witcher shouldn't let you out of his sights.” He hissed back at her, a blade in his left hand glinting in the reflection of the quarter moon, shining between the tree branches.

“Well, I'm not going to wake him in the dead of night, to watch me piss.” Skye barked at him, trying to hide her discomfort and nerves from him. “What are you doing sneaking about in the woods at night anyway?” She asked, glancing at his hand.

“Hunting.” He replied, sticking the small dagger into his belt.

Skye looked around, she hadn't heard any animals moving about in the darkness. “If you say so.” She sighed, not wishing to press and anger him into hurting her.

“I do.” He replied, coldly narrowing his eyes at her.

“I believe you.” Skye told him, shifting on her feet. “Good night.” She added, slowly turning her back to him.

“Night.” He replied and watched her go, before being swallowed into the darkness again.

“Where were you?” Geralt asked, meeting her halfway back to their bedroll.

“I had to relieve myself.” Skye answered, closing her cold fingers around his forearm, needing to touch him to drive away the fright Timil had given her.

“What's wrong?” He frowned, feeling the light tremble of her hand.

“Nothing, I'm just cold.” She lied, knowing if she told Geralt about Timil sneaking up on her in the middle of the night and nearly scaring the life out of her, Geralt would be hunting him down and slitting his throat.

“Come back to bed then.” He whispered softly, his brow creased with concern, taking her hand and leading her back to their blankets, folding her up into his arms and nuzzling her cold cheek with his warm one, his hands moving over her arms and back, warming her with the friction of his palms.

– –

Skye woke up early the next morning, finding Geralt was already awake and staring at something with a look of complete shock. Frowning, she got up and came up behind him, her mouth opening to ask him what was wrong, when through the wind swept flap of Yennefer's tent, she saw Yennefer coitusing with the very last person they expected.

“Is that _Jaskier_?” She asked, her mouth hanging open.

“That _is_ Jaskier.” Geralt replied, nodding his head, gold eyes wide and his head slightly cocked with surprise.

“Oh.” Skye gulped at the sight of Jaskier's pasty white ass. “My god.” She chuckled, wrapping her arm around Geralt's and pulling him away. “Rude to stare, Geralt.” She cooed at him.

“After all his crowing about how much he hated her, and all the names he called her, and her him.” Geralt rasped, shaking his head.

“You think he's the dominant one, or she is?” Skye laughed, trying to diffuse the sight out of her mind.

“Surely, Yennefer is.” Geralt laughed back, trying to dissipate the same image.

“Ah, bloody ball sacks!” Yarpen's voice echoed in the thin morning fog, cutting their amusement short.

Frowning at each other, Skye and Geralt followed the sound of his voice to a short drop off. Skye gasped and grabbed Geralt's hand, seeing Eyck laying on his side, his pants pulled down from where he had gone to cure his stomach the night before, but his throat was cut.

“What's going on?” Jaskier's hurried voice called, as he hopped and skipped over to them, pulling his boots on, now fully, but messily, dressed. “Oh my god!” He gasped, reaching the edge and seeing Eyck's body. “Who slits a man's throat while he's relieving his bowels?” He asked, pressing a hand to his lips, trying to keep his stomach down.

Yennefer appeared a moment later, dressed and perfect, her shoulders slumping as she also saw Eyck's body. “Fuck.” She hissed, and stormed away.

They took care of poor Eyck's body and everyone suspected everyone else for his death, but no one was going to question anyone, and no one was certainly going to confess to doing it. So, the groups set out to continue up the mountain. But, it wasn't long until several people noticed the disappearance of one of the Reavers.

“Do you think he did it?” Skye whispered to Geralt, following behind them. “Then, ran.”

“He might have.” Geralt replied, eyeing the back of Boholt. “But, Reavers are conscious-less killers, mercenaries for hire. If the missing one did kill Eyck, he wouldn't have run. Especially with so many Reavers on hand, it would have been a brawl, if anyone tried to make him pay for it, had he done it.”

“The Dwarves said he must have lost his nerve about the Dragon.” Yennefer said, appearing beside them.

“But, that's what Reavers do.” Skye frowned, shaking her head. “They do almost nothing, but kill dragons.”

“He could have been a new recruit.” Jaskier defended her.

“Maybe.” Geralt sighed, he didn't like the energy swirling around everyone, as the hunt for the green dragon continued.

There were only three people on that mountain that Geralt trusted, other than himself, Skye, Jaskier and even Yennefer, for whatever reason she was there on the hunt for. He only partially trusted Borch and the two Zerrikanians, but was mostly sure they weren't the ones responsible for killing Eyck. So, that left the Dwarves, the Reavers and the fifth team, who mysteriously kept their distance from the rest of them. Other than the few occasions Geralt caught one of them staring at Skye, making the hair on his body stand on end with paranoia and suspicion, he more than once, wrapped an arm around Skye's waist and pulled her snug against his side, glaring at the man with an expression that dared him to try something with her, unaware that he already had.

Skye feared that the man, Timil, was the one responsible for Eyck's death. It was too coincidental that she'd find him lurking about the woods in the middle of the same night Eyck would get his throat slit. But, she didn't say anything to anyone, knowing Geralt would be upset she lied to him the night before, about seeing him, and she was afraid that Timil would try and cut her throat, if she did out him as the possible killer.

So, Skye stuck close to Geralt and the rest of her group, and tried to keep clear of Timil, avoiding his looks, even though his eyes burned into her.

– –

The party woke up the next morning, to find that Boholt and his Reavers were gone, waiting until everyone had fallen asleep, to get a full night ahead of them towards the dragon's lair. Geralt and Skye's group, the Dwarves and Timil's groups continued on the path that morning, but there was no guarantee that they would beat the Reavers there.

“Our people used to mine these mountains.” Said Yarpen, leaning on his walking stick, the remaining groups huddling loosely around him. “We know a shortcut, a way around, that should cut off the Reavers by a full half a day.” He explained to Borch.

“We'll show you the shortcut. After that,” He looked around at the group. “It's everyone for themselves.”

Borch looked at the Zerrikanians, Geralt, Skye, Yennefer and Jaskier, then nodded at Yarpen. “Lead the way.” He said, motioning forward.

Laughing, Yarpen took the detour from the path they had been following for the last two and a half days, leading the way to the short cut, which ended up being a well hidden trail down between two splits in the rock face that led down into a crevasse and out to a sheer rock face.

“Careful! It's windy, so there's scree falling over head.” Yarpen warned as chunks of rock fell from the walls the crevasse and the peaks above.

Geralt suddenly grabbed the back of Skye's shirt and yanked her backwards into his chest, just as a large slab fell from over head and smashed to the ground where she had been standing a moment before. She tilted her head back to look up at Geralt, her cheeks flushed with fright and her heart bounced against her ribs at the close call; had it not been for Geralt's quick Witcher senses. She sighed, letting out all the tension and pressed her hands to her warm face; Geralt was just as relieved, but kept his face blank.

“This is crazy.” Jaskier commented, peeking around the corner of the shear wall and saw the narrow and worn planks, laid over thick steel spikes driven into the mountain side. “There is no way.”

“Oh quit, your mewling.” Yarpen laughed at him.

“We should turn back.” Geralt said, his arm still around Skye's waist.

“No, we're close.” Borch snapped.

“How can you even know that?” Jaskier retorted.

“It's too dangerous.” Yennefer added, looking dubiously over the edge, the bottom hidden by mists and clouds.

“The route is perfectly fine.” Yarpen continued to argue.

“For a Dwarf.” Yennefer replied, eyeing him.

“You'll manage.” He hissed at her. “If you don't look down.” He chuckled and started moving across the creaking planks.

“Ladies first?” Jaskier fretted, looking back at Yennefer and Skye.

Yennefer rolled her eyes at him and nudged him forward, then followed after him. Skye looked back and Geralt, who gave her a tight nod of his head, he wasn't happy about the turn of events, like the rest of the group, but they needed to beat the Reavers. Sighing, Skye carefully moved out onto the planks, biting her lip as she watched Timil shimmy sideways along it in front of her and behind Yennefer, the rest of his group making their way ahead of Jaskier.

Geralt followed after Skye, with Borch, Téa and Véa following behind him. The group paused as Jaskier's foot slipped, the edge of the rotted plank giving out under his weight, but he managed to hang onto the rusted chain nailed along the rock face as well, pulling himself back up.

“Jaskier, are you all right?” Yennefer asked, her Violet eyes wide and her stomach tight with concern.

“Yea-yeah..yes.” He gulped, then leaned his head over the side and puked into the misty oblivion.

Getting his wits about him again, Jaskier continued on, allowing the others to move forward as well, minding the rotten plank as each of them crossed it. The winds kicked up around them, pressing them to the mountain side and making the boards protest more. They weren't halfway, when the boards beneath Borch and the Zerrikanians gave away, the only thing stopping them from plunging into the unknown was the chain they held onto. Geralt bent and grabbed the chain, straining to pull them up to safety, but their combined weight was too much for him to reel in. Skye gasped, seeing them dangle and the groaning of the board underneath Geralt's own weight threatening to give as well.

She instinctively started moving back towards him.

“Geralt!” She cried, reaching out to him.

“Stay back!” Geralt barked at her, the strain started to become too much for him.

But, Skye was almost to him, when part of the board she was standing on gave away. She would have fallen to her death, if it hadn't been for Timil's reflexes, grabbing her by the wrist and holding her as she hung perilously in mid-air.

“Skye!” screamed Geralt, Yennefer and Jaskier at the same time, watching helplessly.

“Sir Witcher,” Borch called to Geralt, watching Skye sway in the high winds, Timil grunting as he gripped her slipping arm tighter. “You must let go.” He told him, resigned to his fate.

“No.” Geralt shook his head, torn between saving Skye and Borch.

Borch smiled softly at Geralt. “Thank you.” He whispered, before letting go and plummeting into the mist.

Everyone's mouths dropped open, watching him disappear. Geralt reached for the Zerrikanians, but not willing to live without Borch themselves, they too let go and vanished. Geralt's shoulders slumped for a moment, before turning and carefully making his way to Skye, reaching down for her other arm and with the help of Timil, pulled her back up onto the planks.

“Are you all right?” Geralt asked as soon as they were on stable footing again, cupping Skye's dirty face in his hands and looked her over for any injury.

“I'm okay.” She whispered, emotionally drained from nearly dying and watching Borch and the Zerrikanians die. “I'm--” She gulped at the thick lump of tears in her throat. “Fine.”

Her voice cracked.

Frowning, Geralt huddled her up into his arms, rubbing her shivering back and cradling the back of her head, as her tears overwhelmed her, burying her face into his chest. Death wasn't a new occurrence in Skye's life, she had seen farm animals die from old age, wolf, fox and bear attacks, the negligence of their owners or being slaughtered for food. But, Skye had never dealt with the death of another person she connected with before, let alone the tragic and horrible death that Borch and the Zerrikanians had fallen too. Geralt held her tight against his body, swaying gently side to side and pressed his lips to her hair, trying to comfort her the best he could; wishing he could take her pain and anguish away, to shoulder it himself.

Geralt didn't pull away from Skye as footsteps crunched up the fallen scree towards them, but turned to shield Skye's grief from them, looking over his shoulder to Yennefer as she slowly approached them, a similar sad and down trodden expression on her face; he lifted a brow at her.

“I had a tent set up for you and Skye.” She said softly, her sensitive ears catching Skye's sniffles. “For privacy.” She added, with a gentle smile of compassion.

“Thank you, Yen.” Geralt nodded his head to her, lips pressed together in a thin smile.

Yennefer nodded back at him, then turned and walked away, allowing Geralt to turn his attention back to Skye. “Why don't we rest for a while?” He suggested, tenderly stroking her hair out of her face. “It's been a grueling couple of days.”

Skye nodded against his chest, using the sleeve of her shirt to wipe at the dirty tear streaks on her cheeks. “Okay.” She whimpered, voice weak and hoarse.

Nodding and kissing her forehead, Geralt gently guided her to the tent that Yennefer graciously had erected for them. It looked too small for two people from the outside, but once inside the flap, both of them were surprised to see that it was actually quite large on the inside. How the perks of Magic could make so many things in life more comfortable, despite being on a mountain peak looking for a legendary dragon.

Skye laid down on the large poster bed and Geralt snuggled in behind her, wrapping his arm tightly around her waist and rubbing his lips gently against her neck, trying to give her as much comfort and support he could. He knew if she wanted to talk about it, she would, but the way she clung to him, told the Witcher she just needed to be held and feel his presence. He smiled at her, as she twisted around to face him, draping her arm over his side and nuzzling her face into his chest. After a little while, Geralt relaxed some, when she finally managed to fall asleep, his fingers tenderly stroking her hair.

“Geralt.” A soft voice called from the tent flap.

He looked up and saw Jaskier standing there, his young and handsome face dirty from the trip up the mountain and heavy with sorrow. He frowned at him, not risking waking up Skye to reply to him. But, saw in the Bard's face that he also needed his attention, he didn't quite understand why he couldn't get it from Yennefer, since they seemed to be lovers, but, sighing, Geralt very carefully unwrapped himself from Skye and made his way over to him.

“What is it, Jaskier?” He whispered, standing huddled with Jaskier to keep their conversation low.

“How is she?” Jaskier asked, motioning to Skye with his concerned slate-blue and green flecked eyes.

“Tired, hurt.” Geralt looked back at her with exhausted amber eyes. “Like the rest of us. I think I'll take her back to the Pensive Dragon, in the morning. Let her rest now in a comfortable bed, before making the trek back down the mountain.”

“That sounds like the best idea.” Jaskier agreed, shrugging his tense and sore shoulders.

“Would you let Yen know?” Geralt asked, delicately meeting the Bard's eye for a moment.

“Yeah, of course.” He nodded, blushing and fidgeting, toeing at the ground with his boot.

“Thanks.” Geralt smiled, squeezing Jaskier's arm.

Nodding at each other, Jaskier dipped back out of the tent and Geralt went back to bed with Skye, resting his forehead on the crown of her head as he drifted off to sleep with her.

– –

Skye sat bolt upright, the roar of wind in her ears, screams of people falling down a mountain side, reaching for Geralt as she fell, but unable to hold onto him. She pressed her fingertips into her throbbing eyes and got out of bed, going to the small side table and poured a bit of the water from a pitcher into a bowl, splashing it into her face and looked up at herself in the mirror attached to it. Her face was dirty, streaked from sweat, tears and water. Sighing, she picked a towel beside the bowl and dipped a corner of it in the water bowl, then rubbed it across her face, rubbing so hard her face hurt, like she was trying to rub away the memories of the day before.

A shuffling outside the tent caught her attention, setting the towel down and casting a look back at Geralt, Skye tiptoed to the tent flap and peeked out. She saw dark figures moving about in the dark, they were too tall to be the Dwarves and there were too many to be either Yennefer and Jaskier trying to sneak around to snog again. Biting her lip and considering whether or not she should wake Geralt, Skye grabbed her sword, then carefully slipped out of their tent, staying low and in the darker shadows as she followed behind the figures.

They moved like ghosts through the camp, picking their way around the snoring Dwarves, spread out in their rolls on the ground. Noting the incline of the ground was steadily gaining, Skye understood in an instant, where they were going, towards the dragon's lair. She continued to follow them from a safe distance, slipping over rocks and hugging one side of the trail to avoid the steep cliff on the other side. Rounding a bend, Skye ducked down as the three figures stepped out into a small plateau, standing close together for a moment, flashes of light sparking between them several times, before a torch they had brought with them caught, throwing a wide circle of wavering light around them.

She looked up to see another group coming from the other side of the rail. “Reavers.” She whispered, seeing the seven bodies, rapidly approaching the illuminated three.

The two groups met, the one holding the torch staked it into the ground, the dancing torch light flickering against their bodies, their faces still in the shadows, but their body languages told Skye they were sizing each other up for a fight. A roar broke the chilled air, echoing from the entrance of the cave close by, startling everyone. The two teams turned towards the mouth of the cave, a whoosh of air set a cloud of dusty air at the men, who coughed and rubbed the grit out of their eyes, just in time to dodge out of the way of a streamline of flames, lighting up the whole mountain side, like a summer afternoon.

Recovering themselves, the men pulled their weapons and ringed the cave entrance, one by one each of them entered the dragon's lair. Skye stood up and jogged up towards the cave, peering inside. She saw the green dragon, curled around a glowing egg, and gasped.

“Who do we have here?” Said a raspy voice in the darkness behind Skye.

Skye's skin rippled with anxiety as she recognized Boholt's voice as his hand clamped down on the back of her neck.

“Looks like I get to kill the Witcher's lover after all.” He grinned, pulling her up and turning her to look at his sly grinning face.

“This is going to be good.”

– –

Geralt shifted and felt the emptiness of the bed around him. Opening his eyes, he searched the tent for any hint of Skye, but the only hint he found was her and her sword were missing. Panic and alarm rose in Geralt's broad chest, the worst case scenario going off in his mind as he yanked the blankets off and jumped out of bed. Quickly yanking on his armor and grabbing his sword, he crossed the ground between his tent and Yennefer's, throwing open the flap and startling her, and Jaskier.

“Geralt!” Jaskier yelped, eyes wide with fright. “I-I...w-we ca-can..”

“I don't care that both of you are fucking.” Geralt snapped, with an impatient growl. “Skye's missing.” He added, before either of them could start making any more excuses.

“What?” Yennefer frowned, surprised.

“She's gone, so is her sword and the fifth team that came up with us.” He explained. “My bet, is they're going after the dragon.”

“You think Skye went after the dragon with them?” Yennefer asked, dressing with Jaskier.

“Skye's many things, but crazy enough to go after a dragon in the middle of the night, is not one of them.” Geralt told her, shaking his head and growing even more troubled.

“Right well, let's go.” Jaskier said, motioning out of the tent.

The trio picked their way towards the dragon's lair, by the time they reached the lair, the sun was starting to rise. They saw the staked torch by the mouth of the cave, burned out, and a stand off on Dragon scorched earth. Timil, Edic and Lotus had their weapons pulled, but they looked ragged and bloody, having obviously been skirmishing with the dragon and the Reavers, who looked just as bad as they did.

“Skye.” Jaskier gasped, pointing her out.

Skye was held near the back of the Reavers, Boholt's clammy hand still clamped down on her neck. She looked exhausted, blood dripping from her nose and breathing hard, watching the Reavers out number the others.

“We have to get down there.” Geralt snapped and started sprinting down the trail towards the lair. “STOP!” He roared, skidding to a stop across the scree and gravel.

“Ah, the Witcher Knight!” Boholt laughed, not moving from his position. “Come to save his damsel.”

“Let her go.” Geralt growled, his chest rumbling with rage.

“I don't think so, Witcher.” Said Boholt, shaking his head at Geralt. “I'm going to be the first one to crack that egg, after I kill all of you.” He hissed, shaking Skye roughly by the neck.

There was the hard crunching of feet pounding up the trail behind Boholt, catching everyone's attention. Everyone's mouths dropped open, seeing the two Zerrikanians, Téa and Véa, come running into view, drawing their swords and readying themselves for a battle. A roar rippled through the morning air, a high wind kicking up as a third surprise made itself known.

A gigantic golden dragon touched down on the ledge above the entrance of the dragon's lair. “Sir Witcher.”

“This isn't possible.” Geralt gasped, shaking his head at the creature. “How?” He demanded of the Zerrikanians.

“My real name is Villentretenmerth.” The gold dragon explained, telepathically. “This green dragon, Myrgtabrakke, was once my mate. I had heard of her being with child and before I could come to her, to protect her, the people of the kingdom reached her first, causing her to attack in protection of our child, the egg.”

“How did you survive?” Jaskier asked, shaking his head at the dragon, mouth agape.

“He's a dragon, Jaskier.” Yennefer shook her head at him, rolling her purple eyes. “He changed form and caught them.”

“Oh, yeah. Right, that makes total sense.” The Bard nodded, carding a hand through his short caramel-brown hair. “I guess.”

“So, I went in search of you, Geralt of Rivia.” Borch continued. “The Knight that was raised to protect dragons, and not to kill them.”

“Well!” Boholt huffed, shoving Skye into another of the Reavers and pointed his sword at Borch. “Looks like we get to fuck up the whole family.”

“Kill them!”

The tension swirling around the gathering snapped and swords clashed, ringing out in the air with growls and yells. Mixing together and trying to even the odds against the Reavers. Yennefer dual wielded a sword and dagger, fending off the two Reavers trying to cut her down, circling her like vultures. Jaskier dodged Lotus as he swiped at him with his sword, nicking the lute the Elven King Filavandrel had gifted him after the mayhem of the Devil of Posada. Striking down one Reaver with a heavy blow of his sword, Geralt turned, deflecting one sword, while ducking out of the way of another. Yennefer threw out her hand, casting a spell, and freezing one Reaver like he was made of stone, then ducked a sword and drove the tip of her own through her attacker's stomach.

Zerrikanians fought with ease and grace, making sure to push back any pursuers that wished to get closer to the dragon cave. During the ensuing chaos, Skye was released from the handle of her Reaver, enabling her to unsheathe her sword and drive it through the top of his foot, with an agonized howl. Geralt did his best to try and hack his way through the crowd towards Skye, but there just seemed to be too many of them.

“Heliotrope, _Now!_ ” He shouted to her over the cacophony of battle.

Skye had only heard ' _Helio.._ ' come out of Geralt's mouth, the rest swallowed up like a sink hole of sound. But, seeing his face, she instantly understood what he wanted her to do. Nodding her head, she threw up her arms and crossed her wrists before her face, the whir and pulse of the blue shimmering shell of magic formed over her, distorting her, like her reflection in a pond.

Assured, Geralt planted his feet and thrust out his arm with three fingers, and an almost sonic wave of energy shot out of his arm and fingers, casting everything away, like Moses parting the sea. The blast struck Skye's Heliotrope and sent her sliding back several feet, dangerously close to the edge, before she stopped and the Sign was depleted; allowing Skye to drop her hands, unscathed. Geralt rushed Skye, catching her up into his arms and kissing like a man possessed.

“What were you thinking?” He gasped, out of breath.

“I saw Timil and his men leaving in the middle of the night, I wanted to know where they were going.” Skye explained to him, seeing the downed people start to move, groan and get up; collecting their weapons. “I meant to see what they were doing, then go back and get you. But, before I could, Boholt sneaked up on me.” She told him, rubbing at her blood encrusted nose.

“You see the rest.” She let out a hard breath.

“I'm afraid we have more.” Borch commented, craning his long golden neck, seeing more Reavers coming over the hill of the trail, on both sides. “I'll protect the egg.”

Nodding, Skye, Geralt and Yennefer, went to one side of the path and the Zerrikanians went to the other. Timil, Edic and Lotus were still struggling to regain themselves after Geralt's Aard. Skye, Yennefer and Geralt all formed a line in front of the cave, prepared to block anyone's entrance, at any cost. The three of them worked together with such skilled grace, mindful of where one another was, even when they couldn't see each other in the mash of bodies swarming around them, like a shaken hornets nest.

They criss crossed each other, waving in and out, protecting each other's sides and backs, and fronts, if need be. Reavers fell and dwindled down under their blades and the blades of the Zerrikanians, but one had slipped through the defenses, slowly dragging himself through the dusty and rocky ground towards the glowing and pulsing egg. He had come too far not to receive what he claimed and felt was only his right, no one would stand in his way.

But, he was wrong.

Borch stretched out his neck, scales rattling as he did, opening his maw just enough to let out a searing stream of flame at him. Within moments, there was merely nothing left of him, but charred remains and the sickening smell of roasted flesh.

A Reaver was able to disarm Yennefer of her sword and Geralt was still sparring with two other Reavers, which would have only left Boholt. The leader of the Reavers grinned at Geralt, holding his spear, his filthy body tense and ready for whatever small move Geralt made for him. Yennefer struggled with her last Reaver, completely disarmed and held by the throat. Quickly and without thinking, Geralt tossed his sword, impaling the Reaver through the side, dropping him instantly, and saving her.

Taking his chance, Boholt lunged at Geralt with his spear. Geralt caught the shaft of the long weapon before it could touch his throat, straining against it and dropping to a knee under the strain.

“It's a shame you don't get to see me crack that egg, Mutant.” He hissed, pressing harder.

Geralt groaned under the strain, every muscle bulging, the thick veins and cords in his throat standing out. His hands started to slip, when Yennefer stumbled for a dropped dagger on the ground, and started at Boholt.

“Crack this.” She growled at him, stabbing the blade through his throat, dropping him like a rock.

“NO!”

The sound of Jaskier's frightened and panicked voice pulled Geralt and Yennefer out of the high that came with the heat of battle, the surge of adrenaline and the chemical fight and flight, dying out in their veins. They looked up to Jaskier, who was pointing at something across from him and followed the tip of his shaking finger.

“SKYE!!” Geralt bellowed, eyes wide as he watched her struggle.

“Ger-Geralt.” She choked around the broad palm of Lotus's hand as he tilted her back over the steep edge of the mountain, clawing at his bare forearms.

“Let her go!” Geralt demanded, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “And I _might_ let you live.” He threatened, nostrils flaring with his fury.

“Not until you give us the dragon's egg.” Lotus barked, tilting Skye back even more, her feet slipping under the crumbling edge. “You give me the egg.” He said, looking at the Zerrikanians and Borch.

“Or I let her go.”

His threat was genuine, that was more than clear to everyone involved.

“That won't happen.” Borch replied, shaking his shining gold head, hot air coming out of his large snout.

“All well, then.” Lotus shrugged, chillingly cold and blank, as he slowly loosened his grip on Skye's throat, one finger at a time.

“STOP!” A hoarse voice shouted, echoing them. “Leave her be, Lotus!”

Shock sparked between the group as one of Lotus's own team members stumbled out of the cave, his hand pressed to a wound on his side.

“What do you care if she dies, Timil?” Lotus asked, narrowing his eyes at him. “She's just some filthy Human in the way of our treasure and reward.” He babbled on, so inflamed by his conviction on the matter. “We kill her, then the rest of them, and we're rich, free land for our people, that they stole from us!”

“What are you talking about?” Jaskier huffed, confused and tense. “Stole what? From who.”

Lotus reached for the hat he had been wearing since the Pensive Dragon, and pulled it off, revealing a set of Elven ears.

“Elves.” Geralt growled in the pit of his throat.

“We knew that Niedamir wouldn't allow Elves to sign up for the hunt, even though he let those degenerate Dwarves. So, we've been posing as Human Men to do our deeds. So, we could gain money to feed the thousands of us forced out of our homes and into exile, on land that's not even fertile enough to feed a dung beetle.”

The venomous hate the Lotus spewed was almost infectious to the rest of them, but Timil, he remained calm, though he had to blink and shake his head often to keep from blacking out, with his increasing blood loss. He shuffled his feet closer to Lotus and held his hand out.

“Let her go.” He whispered, wiggling his fingers at Lotus. “She's not part of this, she's not the cause of our issues and hardships.” He tried to reason with his old friend.

“She's a Human!” Lotus growled, throwing his hat to the ground, in frustration. “This is _all_ of their faults, that we live like animals. What's one more Hum--”

“She's only half Human!” Timil cried out, his calm drained and his fury flowing.

“How do you know that!?” Geralt yelled, his rage and suspicion moving from Lotus to Timil.

Like the ocean tide, Timil's rage and calm came in waves, he wasn't directly mad at any of them; he was angry at himself, and he had been for a long time. It had been his greatest joy, his deepest hurt and his most sincere regret, and knew that it was time, that he needed to lift it off of his shoulders and admit his faults in life.

“Because,” Timil sighed, meeting Skye's red and Minty-Green eyes, seeing the panicked fear and startled confusion in them. He lifted his hand and removed his own hat, showing his own Elven ears, with reverence.

“ _She's my daughter._ ”


End file.
